IN  THE 
HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


BY    THE    SAME   AUTHOR 


FRENCH  MEN,  WOMEN,  AND  BOOKS. 

Illustrated.     Large  8vo.     $2. 50  net. 

LITERARY    RAMBLES   IN    FRANCE. 

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HOME   LIFE   IN    FRANCE. 

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A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 


•  ;;\ 


[Frontispiece 


ST.  ODILE 

Drawn  by  Georges  Conrad 


IN  THE  HEART 
OF  THE  VOSGES 

AND    OTHER    SKETCHES    BY    A 
"DEVIOUS  TRAVELLER" 


BY 


MISS    BETHAM-^DWARDS 

OFFICIER   DE   L'lNSTRUCTION   PUBLIQUE   DE   FRANCE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  SPECIAL  PERMISSION 


"I  travel  not  to  look  for  Gascons  in  Sicily.     I  have 
left  them  at  home." — Montaigne. 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG   &   CO. 

LONDON:  CHAPMAN  &  HALL,  LTD. 
1912 


RICHARD  CLAY  &  SONS,  LIMITED, 

BRUNSWICK  STREET,    STAMFORD  STREET,    S  E., 
AND    BUNGAV,    SUFFOLK. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

SOME  of  these  sketches  now  appear  for  the 
first  time,  others  have  been  published  serially, 
whilst  certain  portions,  curtailed  or  enlarged 
respectively,  are  reprinted  from  a  former  work 
long  since  out  of  print.  Yet  again  I  might  entitle 
this  volume,  "  Scenes  from  Unfrequented  France," 
many  spots  being  here  described  by  an  English 
traveller  for  the  first  time. 

My  warmest  thanks  are  due  to  M.  Maurice 
Barres  for  permission  to  reproduce  two  illustra- 
tions by  M.  Georges  Conrad  from  his  famous 
romance,  Au  Service  de  I'Allemagne;  also  to 
M.  Andre  Hallays  for  the  use  of  two  views  from 
his  A  Tr avers  f  Alsace;  and  to  the  publishers  of 
both  authors,  MM.  Fayard  and  Perrin,  for  their 
serviceableness  in  the  matter. 

Nor  must  I  omit  to  acknowledge  my  indebted- 
ness to  Messrs.  Sampson  Low  &  Co.,  to  whom  I 
owe  the  reproduction  of  Gustave  Dore's  infantine 
tours  de  force;  and  to  Messrs.  Rivington,  who 


270625 


vi  PREFATORY   NOTE 

have  allowed  large  reprints  from  the  work  pub- 
lished by  them  over  twenty  years  ago. 

And  last  but  not  least,  I  thank  the  Rev.  Albert 
Cadier,  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  the  much 
respected  pastor  of  Osse,  for  the  loan  of  his 
charming  photographs. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  'AGE 

I  GERARDMER   AND   ITS   ENVIRONS     ....            I 

II  THE   CHARM    OF   ALSACE                                   .                        •         31 

III  IN   GUSTAVE   DORA'S   COUNTRY          .  -45 

IV  FROM    BARR   TO   STRASBURG 71 

V  THE    "  MARVELLOUS   BOY  "   OF   ALSACE    ...         97 

VI      QUISSAC  AND    SAUVE 121 

VII      AN   IMMORTALIZER 139 

VIII      TOULOUSE 151 

IX  MONTAUBAN,    OR   INGRES-VILLE         .            .            .            .163 

X  MY   PYRENEAN   VALLEY   AT   LAST     .            .            .            .179 

XI  AN   OLIVE    FARM    IN   THE   VAR          .           .            .            .229 

XII  PESSICARZ  AND  THE  SUICIDES'   CEMETERY        .            .253 

XIII  GUEST   OF   FARMER   AND   MILLER    .  .  .  .281 

XIV  LADY    MERCHANTS    AND   SOCIALIST    MAYORS     .  .       305 


VU 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

To  j  ace  f age 

ST.  ODILE      ......          Frontispiece 

PROVINS,  GENERAL  VIEW 2 

PROVINS,  THE  CAPITOL 4 

PROVINS,  THE  CITY  WALLS 6 

GERARDMER 8 

A  VOSGIAN  SCENE 12 

CIRQUE  DE  RETOURNEMER 14 

THE  PINNACLE  OF  ODILE       ......  64 

ETTENHEIM 86 

COLMAR 94 

GUSTAVE  DOR£,  INFANTINE  SKETCH    .     .     .     -97 

GUSTAVE  DOR£,         DO.            .     .     .     .  IOI 

OSSE 194 

NEAR   THE    SPANISH    FRONTIER 196 

ORCUM 2l6 

ARRAS,  LA  PETITE  PLACE 294 


viii 


I 

GfiRARDMER   AND   ENVIRONS 


GERARDMER   AND   ENVIRONS 

THE  traveller  bound  to  eastern  France  has  a 
choice  of  many  routes,  none  perhaps  offering  more 
attractions  than  the  great  Strasburg  line  by  way  of 
Meaux,  Chalons-sur-Marne,  Nancy,  and  fipinal. 
But  the  journey  must  be  made  leisurely.  The 
country  between  Paris  and  Meaux  is  deservedly 
dear  to  French  artists,  and  although  Champagne 
is  a  flat  region,  beautiful  only  by  virtue  of  fertility 
and  highly  developed  agriculture,  it  is  rich  in  old 
churches  and  fine  architectural  remains.  By  the 
Troyes-Belfort  route,  Provins  may  be  visited. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the 
mediaeval  walled-in  town  in  France.  To  my  think- 
ing, neither  Carcassonne,  Semur  nor  Guerande 
surpass  Hegesippe  Moreau's  little  birthplace  in 
beauty  and  picturesqueness.  The  acropolis  of 
Brie  also  possesses  a  long  and  poetic  history, 
being  the  seat  of  an  art-loving  prince,  and  the 
haunt  of  troubadours.  A  word  to  the  epicure  as 
well  as  the  archaeologist.  The  bit  of  railway  from 
Chalons-sur-Marne  to  Nancy  affords  a  series  of 
gastronomic  delectations.  At  Epernay  travellers 

B  2  7 


4     IN   THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

are  just  allowed  time  to  drink  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne at  the  buffet,  half  a  franc  only  being 
charged.  At  Bar-le-Duc  little  neatly-packed  jars 
of  the  raspberry  jam  for  which  the  town  is  famous 
are  brought  to  the  doors  of  the  railway  carriage. 
Further  on  at  Commercy,  you  are  enticed  to  regale 
upon  unrivalled  cakes  called  "  Madeleines  de 
Commercy,5'  and  not  a  town,  I  believe,  of  this 
favoured  district  is  without  its  speciality  in  the 
shape  of  delicate  cates  or  drinks. 

Chalons-sur-Marne,  moreover,  possesses  one  of 
the  very  best  hotels  in  provincial  France — the 
hotel  with  the  queer  name — another  inducement 
for  us  to  idle  on  the  way.  The  town  itself  is  in 
no  way  remarkable,  but  it  abounds  in  mag- 
nificent old  churches  of  various  epochs — some 
falling  into  decay,  others  restored,  one  and  all 
deserving  attention.  St.  Jean  is  especially  note- 
worthy, its  beautiful  interior  showing  much  ex- 
quisite tracery  and  almost  a  fanciful  arrangement 
of  transepts.  It  is  very  rich  in  good  modern 
glass.  But  the  gem  of  gems  is  not  to  be  found 
in  Chalons  itself ;  more  interesting  and  beautiful 
than  its  massive  cathedral  and  church  of  Notre 
Dame,  than  St.  Jean  even,  is  the  exquisite  church 
of  Notre  Dame  de  TEpine,  situated  in  a  poor 
hamlet  a  few  miles  beyond  the  octroi  gates.  We 
have  here,  indeed,  a  veritable  cathedral  in  a 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS        5 

wilderness,  nothing  to  be  imagined  more  graceful 
than  the  airy  open  colonnades  of  its  two  spires, 
light  as  a  handful  of  wheat  ears  loosely  bound 
together.  The  colour  of  the  grey  stone  gives 
solemnity  to  the  rest  of  the  exterior,  which  is 
massive  and  astonishingly  rich  in  the  grotesque 
element.  We  carefully  studied  the  gargoyles 
round  the  roof,  and,  in  spite  of  defacements, 
made  out  most  of  them — here  a  grinning  demon 
with  a  struggling  human  being  in  its  clutch- 
there  an  odd  beast,  part  human,  part  pig,  clothed 
in  a  kind  of  jacket,  playing  a  harp — dozens  of 
comic,  hideous,  heterogeneous  figures  in  various 
attitudes  and  travesties. 

Notre  Dame  de  1'fipine — originally  commem- 
orative of  a  famous  shrine — has  been  restored, 
and  purists  in  architecture  will  pass  it  by  as  an 
achievement  of  Gothic  art  in  the  period  of  its 
decline,  but  it  is  extremely  beautiful  nevertheless. 
On  the  way  from  Chalons-sur-Marne  to  Nancy 
we  catch  glimpses  of  other  noble  churches  that 
stand  out  from  the  flat  landscape  as  imposingly 
as  Ely  Cathedral.  These  are  Notre  Dame  of 
Vitry  le  Frangois  and  St.  Etienne  of  Toul, 
formerly  a  cathedral,  both  places  to  be  stopped 
at  by  leisurely  tourists. 

The  fair,  the  triste  city  of  Nancy!  There  is 
an  indescribable  charm  in  the  sad  yet  stately 


6    IN  THE   HEART   OF  THE  VOSGES 

capital  of  ancient  Lorraine.  No  life  in  its  quiet 
streets,  no  movement  in  its  handsome  squares, 
nevertheless  Nancy  is  one  of  the  wealthiest,  most 
elegant  cities  in  France !  Hither  flocked  rich 
Alsatian  families  after  the  annexation  of  Alsace- 
Lorraine,  and  perhaps  its  proximity  to  the  lost 
provinces  in  part  accounts  for  the  subdued,  dreamy 
aspect  of  the  place  as  a  whole.  A  strikingly 
beautiful  city  it  is,  with  its  splendid  monuments 
of  the  house  of  Lorraine,  and  handsome  modern 
streets  bearing  evidence  of  much  prosperity  in 
these  days.  In  half-an-hour  you  may  get  an 
unforgettable  glimpse  of  the  Place  Stanislas, 
with  its  bronze  gates,  fountains,  and  statue, 
worthy  of  a  great  capital ;  of  the  beautiful  figure 
of  Duke  Antonio  of  Lorraine,  on  horseback, 
under  an  archway  of  flamboyant  Gothic;  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  and  its  airy  colonnade;  lastly,  of 
the  picturesque  old  city  gate,  the  Porte  de  la 
Craffe,  one  of  the  most  striking  monuments  of 
the  kind  in  France. 

All  these  things  may  be  glanced  at  in  an  hour, 
but  in  order  to  enjoy  Nancy  thoroughly  a  day 
or  two  should  be  devoted  to  it,  and  here,  as  at 
Chalons-sur-Marne,  creature  comforts  are  to  be 
had  in  the  hotels.  In  the  Ducal  Palace  are  shown 
the  rich  tapestries  found  in  the  tent  of  Charles 
le  Temeraire  after  his  defeat  before  Nancy,  and 


GERARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS        7 

other  relics  of  that  Haroun-al-Raschid  of  his 
epoch,  who  bivouacked  off  gold  and  silver  plate, 
and  wore  on  the  battlefield  diamonds  worth  half 
a  million.  In  a  little  church  outside  the  town, 
commemorative  of  this  victory,  are  collected  the 
cenotaphs  of  the  Dukes  of  Lorraine — the 
chapelle  ronde,  as  the  splendid  little  mausoleum 
is  designated — with  its  imposing  monuments  in 
black  marble,  and  richly-decorated  octagonal 
dome,  making  up  a  solemn  and  beautiful  whole. 
Graceful  and  beautiful  also  are  the  monuments 
in  the  church  itself,  and  those  of  another  church, 
Des  Cordeliers,  close  to  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Nancy  is  especially  rich  in  monumental  sculp- 
ture, but  it  is  in  the  cathedral  that  we  are  to  be 
fairly  enchanted  by  the  marble  statues  of  the 
four  doctors  of  the  church — St.  Augustine,  St. 
Gregoire,  St.  Leon,  and  St.  Jerome.  These  are 
the  work  of  Nicolas  Drouin,  a  native  of  Nancy, 
and  formerly  ornamented  a  tomb  in  the  church 
of  the  Cordeliers  just  mentioned.  The  physiog- 
nomy, expression,  and  pose  of  St.  Augustine  are 
well  worthy  of  a  sculptor's  closest  study,  but  it 
is  rather  as  a  whole  than  in  detail  that  this 
exquisite  statue  delights  the  ordinary  observer. 
All  four  sculptures  are  noble  works  of  art;  the 
fine,  dignified  figure  of  St.  Augustine  some- 
how takes  strongest  hold  of  the  imagination.  We 


8  IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

would  fain  return  to  it  again  and  again,  as  indeed 
we  would  fain  return  to  all  else  we  have  seen 
in  the  fascinating  city  of  Nancy.  From  Nancy 
by  way  of  fipinal  we  may  easily  reach  the  heart 
of  the  Vosges. 

How  sweet  and  pastoral  are  these  cool  resting- 
places  in  the  heart  of  the  Vosges !  Gerardmer 
and  many  another  as  yet  unfrequented  by  the 
tourist  world,  and  unsophisticated  in  spite  of 
railways  and  bathing  seasons.  The  Vosges  has 
long  been  a  favourite  playground  of  our  French 
neighbours,  although  ignored  by  the  devotees  of 
Cook  and  Gaze,  and  within  late  years,  not  a 
rustic  spot  possessed  of  a  mineral  spring  but  has 
become  metamorphosed  into  a  second  Plom- 
bieres.  Gerardmer—  "  Sans  Gerardmer  et  un  peu 
'Nancy,  que  serait  la  Lorraine  ?  "  says  the  proverb 
—is  resorted  to,  however,  rather  for  its  rusticity 
and  beauty  than  for  any  curative  properties  of  its 
sparkling  waters.  Also  in  some  degree  for  the 
sake  of  urban  distraction.  The  French  mind 
when  bent  on  holiday-making  is  social  in  the 
extreme,  and  the  day  spent  amid  the  forest  nooks 
and  murmuring  streams  of  Gerardmer  winds  up 
with  music  and  dancing.  One  of  the  chief  attrac- 
tions of  the  big  hotel  in  which  we  are  so  whole- 
somely housed  is  evidently  the  enormous  salon 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS        9 

given  up  after  dinner  to  the  waltz,  country  dance, 
and  quadrille.  Our  hostess  with  much  ease  and 
tact  looks  in,  paying  her  respects  to  one  visitor 
after  another,  and  all  is  enjoyment  and  mirth  till 
eleven  o'clock,  when  the  large  family  party,  for 
so  our  French  fellowship  may  be  called,  breaks 
up.  These  socialities,  giving  as  they  do  the 
amiable  aspect  of  French  character,  will  not 
perhaps  constitute  an  extra  charm  of  Gerardmer 
in  the  eyes  of  the  more  morose  English  tourist. 
After  many  hours  spent  in  the  open  air  most  of 
us  prefer  the  quiet  of  our  own  rooms.  The 
country,  too,  is  so  fresh  and  delicious  that  we 
want  nothing  in  the  shape  of  social  distraction. 
Drawing-room  amenities  seem  a  waste  of  time 
under  such  circumstances.  Nevertheless  the 
glimpses  of  French  life  thus  obtained  are 
pleasant,  and  make  us  realize  the  fact  that  we 
are  off  the  beaten  track,  living  among  French 
folks,  for  the  time  separated  from  insular  ways 
and  modes  of  thought.  Our  fellowship  is  a  very 
varied  and  animated  one.  We  number  among  the 
guests  a  member  of  the  French  ministry — a  writer 
on  the  staff  of  Figaro — a  grandson  of  one  of  the 
most  devoted  and  unfortunate  generals  of  the 
first  Napoleon,  known  as  "the  bravest  of  the 
brave,"  with  his  elegant  wife — the  head  of  one  of 
the  largest  commercial  houses  in  eastern  France 


10    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

— deputies,  diplomats,  artists,  with  many  family 
parties  belonging  to  the  middle  and  upper  ranks 
of  society,  a  very  strong  Alsatian  element  pre- 
dominating. Needless  to  add  that  people  make 
themselves  agreeable  to  each  other  without  any 
introduction.  For  the  time  being  at  least  distinc- 
tions are  set  aside,  and  fraternity  is  the  order  of 
the  day. 

I  do  not  aver  that  my  country-people  have  never 
heard  of  Gerardmer,  but  certainly  those  who 
stray  hither  are  few  and  far  between.  Fortunately 
for  the  lover  of  nature  no  English  writer  has 
as  yet  popularized  the  Vosges.  An  Eden-like 
freshness  pervades  its  valleys  and  forests,  made 
ever  musical  with  cascades,  a  pastoral  simplicity 
characterizes  its  inhabitants.  Surely  in  no  corner 
of  beautiful  France  can  any  one  worn  out  in  body 
or  in  brain  find  more  refreshment  and  tranquil 
pleasure ! 

It  is  only  of  late  years  that  the  fair  broad 
valley  of  Gerardmer  and  its  lovely  little  lake 
have  been  made  accessible  by  railway.  Indeed, 
the  popularity  of  the  Vosges  and  its  watering- 
places  dates  from  the  late  Franco-German  war. 
Rich  French  valetudinarians,  and  tourists  gener- 
ally, have  given  up  Wiesbaden  and  Ems  from 
patriotic  motives,  and  now  spend  their  holidays 
and  their  money  on  French  soil.  Thus  enterprise 


GfiRARDMER  AND  ENVIRONS      11 

has  been  stimulated  in  various  quarters,  and  we 
find  really  good  accommodation  in  out-of-the- 
way  spots  not  mentioned  in  guide-books  of  a 
few  years'  date.  Gerardmer  is  now  reached  by 
rail  in  two  hours  from  Epinal,  on  the  great  Stras- 
burg  line,  but  those  who  prefer  a  drive  across 
country  may  approach  it  from  Plombieres, 
Remiremont,  Colmar  and  Minister,  and  other 
attractive  routes.  Once  arrived  at  Gerardmer, 
the  traveller  will  certainly  not  care  to  hurry  away. 
No  site  in  the  Vosges  is  better  suited  for  excur- 
sionizing  in  all  directions,  and  the  place  itself  is 
full  of  quiet  charm.  There  is  wonderful  sweet- 
ness and  solace  in  these  undulating  hill-sides, 
clothed  with  brightest  green,  their  little  tossing 
rivers  and  sunny  glades  all  framed  by  solemn 
hills — I  should  rather  say  mountains — pitchy 
black  with  the  solemn  pine.  You  may  search  far 
and  wide  for  a  picture  so  engaging  as  Gerardmer 
when  the  sun  shines,  its  gold-green  slopes 
sprinkled  with  white  chalets,  its  red-roofed  village 
clustered  about  a  rustic  church  tower,  and  at  its 
feet  the  loveliest  little  lake  in  the  world,  from 
which  rise  gently  the  fir-clad  heights. 

And  no  monotony !  You  climb  the  inviting 
hills  and  woods  day  by  day,  week  after  week, 
ever  to  find  fresh  enchantment.  Not  a  bend  of 
road  or  winding  mountain-path  but  discloses  a 


12     IN   THE  HEART    OF   THE    VOSGES 

new  scene — here  a  fairy  glen,  with  graceful  birch 
or  alder  breaking  the  expanse  of  dimpled  green ; 
there  a  spinny  of  larch  or  of  Scotch  fir  cresting 
a  verdant  monticule ;  now  we  come  upon  a  little 
Arcadian  home  nestled  on  the  hill-side,  the 
spinning-wheel  hushed  whilst  the  housewife  turns 
her  hay  or  cuts  her  patch  of  rye  or  wheat  growing 
just  outside  her  door.  Now  we  follow  the  musical 
little  river  Vologne  as  it  tosses  over  its  stony  bed 
amid  banks  golden  with  yellow  loosestrife,  or 
gently  ripples  amid  fair  stretches  of  pasture 
starred  with  the  grass  of  Parnassus.  The  per- 
petual music  of  rushing,  tumbling,  trickling  water 
is  delightful,  and  even  in  hot  weather,  if  it  is  ever 
indeed  hot  here,  the  mossy  banks  and  babbling 
streams  must  give  a  sense  of  coolness.  Deep 
down,  entombed  amid  smiling  green  hills  and 
frowning  forest  peaks,  lies  the  pearl  of  Gerard- 
mer,  its  sweet  lake,  a  sheet  of  turquoise  in  early 
morn,  silvery  bright  when  the  noon-day  sun 
flashes  upon  it,  and  on  grey,  sunless  days  gloomy 
as  Acheron  itself. 

Travellers  stinted  for  time  cannot  properly 
enjoy  the  pastoral  scenes,  not  the  least  charm  of 
which  is  the  frank,  pleasant  character  of  the 
people.  Wherever  we  go  we  make  friends  and 
hear  confidences.  To  these  peasant  folks,  who 
live  so  secluded  from  the  outer  world,  the  annual 


GfiRARDMER   AND   ENVIRONS      13 

influx  of  visitors  from  July  to  September  is  a 
positive  boon,  moral  as  well  as  material.  The 
women  are  especially  confidential,  inviting  us  into 
their  homely  yet  not  poverty-stricken  kitchens, 
keeping  us  as  long  as  they  can  whilst  they  chat 
about  their  own  lives  or  ask  us  questions.  The 
beauty,  politeness,  and  clear  direct  speech  of  the 
children,  are  remarkable.  Life  here  is  laborious, 
but  downright  want  I  should  say  rare.  As  in  the 
Jura,  the  forest  gorges  and  park-like  solitudes 
are  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  hammer  and  wheel, 
and  a  tall  factory  chimney  not  infrequently  spoils 
a  wild  landscape.  The  greater  part  of  the  people 
gain  their  livelihood  in  the  manufactories,  very 
little  land  here  being  suitable  for  tillage. 

Gerardmer  is  famous  for  its  cheeses j  another 
local  industry  is  turnery  and  the  weaving  of 
linen,  the  linen  manufactories  employing  many 
hands,  whilst  not  a  mountain  cottage  is  without 
its  handloom  for  winter  use.  Weaving  at  home 
is  chiefly  resorted  to  as  a  means  of  livelihood  in 
winter,  when  the  country  is  covered  with  snow 
and  no  out-door  occupations  are  possible. 
Embroidery  is  also  a  special  fabric  of  the  Vosges, 
but  its  real  wealth  lies  in  mines  of  salt  and  iron, 
and  mineral  waters. 

One  chief  feature  in  Gerardmer  is  the  congeries 
of  handsome  buildings  bearing  the  inscription 


14    IN  THE  HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

" Ecole  Communale"  and  how  stringently  the 
new  educational  law  is  enforced  throughout 
France  may  be  gathered  from  the  spectacle  of 
schoolboys  at  drill.  We  saw  three  squadrons, 
each  under  the  charge  of  a  separate  master, 
evidently  made  up  from  all  classes  of  the  com- 
munity. Some  of  the  boys  were  poorly,  nay, 
miserably,  clad,  others  wore  good  homely  clothes, 
a  few  were  really  well  dressed. 

Our  first  week  at  Gerardmer  was  wet  and  chilly. 
Fires  and  winter  clothes  would  have  been  accept- 
able, but  at  last  came  warmth  and  sunshine,  and 
we  set  off  for  the  Col  de  la  Schlucht,  the  grandest 
feature  of  the  Vosges,  and  the  goal  of  every 
traveller  in  these  regions. 

There  is  a  strange  contrast  between  the  calm 
valley  of  Gerardmer,  a  little  haven  of  tranquil 
loveliness  and  repose,  and  the  awful  solitude  and 
austerity  of  the  Schlucht,  from  which  it  is  separ- 
ated by  a  few  hours  only.  Not  even  a  cold  grey 
day  can  turn  Gerardmer  into  a  dreary  place,  but 
in  the  most  brilliant  sunshine  this  mountain  pass 
is  none  the  less  majestic  and  solemn.  One 
obtains  the  sense  of  contrast  by  slow  degrees,  so 
that  the  mind  is  prepared  for  it  and  in  the  mood 
for  it.  The  acme,  the  culminating  point  of 
Vosges  scenery  is  thus  reached  by  a  gradually 
ascending  scale  of  beauty  and  grandeur  from  the 


GERARDMER  AND  ENVIRONS      15 

moment  we  quit  Gerardmer,  till  we  stand  on  the 
loftiest  summit  of  the  Vosges  chain,  dominating 
the  Schlucht.  For  the  first  half-hour  we  skirt 
the  alder-fringed  banks  of  the  tossing,  foaming 
little  river  Vologne,  as  it  winds  amid  lawny 
spaces,  on  either  side  the  fir-clad  ridges  rising 
like  ramparts.  Here  all  is  gentleness  and  golden 
calm,  but  soon  we  quit  this  warm,  sunny  region, 
and  enter  the  dark  forest  road  curling  upwards 
to  the  airy  pinnacle  to  which  we  are  bound.  More 
than  once  we  have  to  halt  on  our  way.  One 
must  stop  to  look  at  the  cascade  made  by  the 
Vologne,  never  surely  fuller  than  now,  one  of 
the  prettiest  cascades  in  the  world,  masses  of 
snow-white  foam  tumbling  over  a  long,  uneven 
stair  of  granite  through  the  midst  of  a  fairy  glen. 
The  sound  of  these  rushing  waters  is  long  in  our 
ears  as  we  continue  to  climb  the  splendid  moun- 
tain road  that  leads  to  the  Schlucht,  and  nowhere 
else.  From  a  giddy  terrace  cut  in  the  sides  of 
the  shelving  forest  ridge  we  now  get  a  prospect 
of  the  little  lakes  of  Longuemer  and  Retourne- 
mer,  twin  gems  of  superlative  loveliness  in  the 
wildest  environment.  Deep  down  they  lie,  the 
two  silvery  sheets  of  water  with  their  verdant 
holms,  making  a  little  world  of  peace  and  beauty, 
a  toy  dropped  amid  Titanic  awfulness  and 
splendour.  The  vantage  ground  is  on  the  edge 


16    IN   THE   HEART  OF   THE   VOSGES 

of  a  dizzy  precipice,  but  the  picture  thus  sternly 
framed  is  too  exquisite  to  be  easily  abandoned. 
We  gaze  and  gaze  in  spite  of  the  vast  height 
from  which  we  contemplate  it;  and  when  at  last 
we  tear  ourselves  away  from  the  engaging  scene, 
we  are  in  a  region  all  ruggedness  and  sublimity, 
on  either  side  rocky  scarps  and  gloomy  forests, 
with  reminders  by  the  wayside  that  we  are 
approaching  an  Alpine  flora.  Nothing  can  be 
wilder  or  more  solitary  than  the  scene.  For  the 
greater  part,  the  forests  through  which  our  road 
is  cut  are  unfrequented,  except  by  the  wild  boar, 
deer,  and  wild  cat,  and  in  winter  time  the  fine 
mountain  roads  are  rendered  impenetrable  by 
the  accumulation  of  snow. 

This  approach  to  the  Col  is  by  a  tunnel  cut 
in  the  granite,  fit  entrance  to  one  of  the  wildest 
regions  in  France.  The  road  now  makes  a  sudden 
bend  towards  the  chalet  cresting  the  Col,  and  we 
are  able  in  a  moment  to  realize  its  tremendous 
position. 

From  our  little  chalet  we  look  upon  what  seems 
no  mere  cleft  in  a  mountain  chain,  but  in  the  vast 
globe  itself.  This  huge  hollow,  brought  about 
by  some  strange  geological  perturbation,  is  the 
valley  of  Minister,  no  longer  a  part  of  French 
territory,  but  of  Prussian  Elsass.  The  road  we 
have  come  by  lies  behind  us,  but  another  as 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS      17 

formidable  winds  under  the  upper  mountain 
ridge  towards  Miinster,  whilst  the  pedestrian  may 
follow  a  tiny  green  footpath  that  will  lead  him 
thither,  right  through  the  heart  of  the  pass. 
Looking  deep  down  we  discern  here  and  there 
scattered  chalets  amid  green  spaces  far  away. 
These  are  the  homesteads  or  chaumes  of  the 
herdsmen,  all  smiling  cheerfulness  now,  but 
deserted  in  winter.  Except  for  such  little  dwell- 
ings, barely  discernible,  so  distant  are  they,  there 
is  no  break  in  the  solitary  scene,  no  sign  of  life 
at  all. 

The  chalet  is  a  fair  hostelry  for  unfastidious 
travellers,  its  chief  drawback  being  the  pro- 
pensity of  tourists  to  get  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  in  order  to  behold  the  sunrise  from  the 
Hoheneck.  Good  beds,  good  food,  and  from  the 
windows,  one  of  the  finest  prospects  in  the  world, 
might  well  tempt  many  to  linger  here  in  spite 
of  the  disturbance  above  mentioned.  For  the 
lover  of  flowers  this  halting-place  would  be 
delightful. 

Next  morning  the  day  dawned  fair,  and  by 
eight  o'clock  we  set  off  with  a  guide  for  the  ascent 
of  the  Hoheneck,  rather,  I  should  say,  for  a  long 
ramble  over  gently  undulating  green  and  flowery 
ways.  After  climbing  a  little  beechwood,  all  was 
smoothness  under  our  feet,  and  the  long  detour 


18     IN  THE   HEART   OF  THE  VOSGES 

we  had  to  make  in  order  to  reach  the  summit  was 
a  series  of  the  gentlest  ascents,  a  wandering  over 
fair  meadow-land  several  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea-level.  Here  we  found  the  large  yellow 
gentian,  used  in  the  fabrication  of  absinthe,  and 
the  bright  yellow  arnica,  whilst  instead  of  the 
snow-white  flower  of  the  Alpine  anemone,  the 
ground  was  now  silvery  with  its  feathery  seed; 
the  dark  purple  pansy  of  the  Vosges  was  also 
rare.  We  were  a  month  too  late  for  the  season  of 
flowers,  but  the  foxglove  and  the  bright  pink 
Epilobium  still  bloomed  in  great  luxuriance. 

It  was  a  walk  to  remember.  The  air  was  brisk 
and  genial,  the  blue  sky  lightly  flecked  with 
clouds,  the  turf  fragrant  with  wild  thyme,  and 
before  our  eyes  we  had  a  panorama  every  moment 
gaining  in  extent  and  grandeur.  As  yet  indeed 
the  scene,  the  features  of  which  we  tried  to  make 
out,  looked  more  like  cloudland  than  solid  reality. 
On  clear  days  are  discerned  here,  far  beyond  the 
rounded  summits  of  the  Vosges  chain,  the  Rhine 
Valley,  the  Black  Forest,  the  Jura  range,  and  the 
snow-capped  Alps.  To-day  we  saw  grand  masses 
of  mountains  piled  one  above  the  other,  and 
higher  still  a  pageantry  of  azure  and  gold  that 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  clouds. 

No  morning  could  promise  fairer,  but  hardly 
had  we  reached  the  goal  of  our  walk  when  from 


GtiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS     19 

far  below  came  an  ominous  sound  of  thunder, 
and  we  saw  heavy  rain-clouds  dropping  upon  the 
heights  we  had  left  behind. 

All  hope  of  a  fine  prospect  was  now  at  an  end, 
but  instead  we  had  a  compensating  spectacle. 
For  thick  and  fast  the  clouds  came  pouring  into 
one  chasm  after  another,  drifting  in  all  directions, 
here  a  mere  transparent  veil  drawn  across  the 
violet  hills,  there  a  golden  splendour  as  of  some 
smaller  sun  shining  on  a  green  little  world.  At 
one  moment  the  whole  vast  scene  was  blurred  and 
blotted  with  chill  winter  mist;  soon  a  break  was 
visible,  and  far  away  we  gazed  on  a  span  of  serene 
amethystine  sky,  barred  with  lines  of  bright  gold. 
Not  one,  but  a  dozen,  horizons — a  dozen  heavens 
— seemed  there,  whilst  the  thunder  that  reached 
us  from  below  seemed  too  remote  to  threaten. 
But  at  last  the  clouds  gathered  in  form  and 
volume,  hiding  the  little  firmaments  of  violet  and 
amber;  the  bright  blue  sky,  bending  over  the 
green  oasis — all  vanished  as  if  by  magic.  We 
could  see  no  more,  and  nothing  remained  but  to 
go  back,  and  the  quicker  the  better.  The  storm, 
our  guide  said,  was  too  far  off  to  reach  us  yet, 
and  we  might  reach  the  chalet  without  being 
drenched  to  the  skin,  as  we  fortunately  did.  No 
sooner,  however,  were  we  fairly  under  shelter 

than  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents  and  the 
c  2 


20    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

thunder  pealed  overhead.  In  no  part  of  France 
are  thunderstorms  so  frequent  and  so  destructive 
as  here,  nowhere  is  the  climate  less  to  be 
depended  on.  A  big  umbrella,  stout  shoes,  and  a 
waterproof  are  as  necessary  in  the  Vosges  as  in 
our  own  Lake  district. 

We  had,  however,  a  fine  afternoon  for  our  drive 
back,  a  quick  downhill  journey  along  the  edge 
of  a  tremendous  precipice,  clothed  with  beech- 
trees  and  brushwood.  A  most  beautiful  road  it 
is,  and  the  two  little  lakes  looked  lovely  in  the 
sunshine,  encircled  by  gold-green  swards  and  a 
delicate  screen  of  alder  branches.  Through 
pastures  white  with  meadow-sweet  the  turbulent, 
crystal-clear  little  river  Vologne  flowed  merrily, 
making  dozens  of  tiny  cascades,  turning  a  dozen 
mill-wheels  in  its  course.  All  the  air  was  frag- 
rant with  newly-turned  hay,  and  never,  we 
thought,  had  Gerardmer  and  its  lake  made  a 
more  captivating  picture. 

Excursions  innumerable  may  be  made  from 
Gerardmer.  We  may  drive  across  country  to 
Remiremont,  to  Plombieres,  to  Wesserling,  to 
Colmar,  to  St.  Die,  whilst  these  places  in  turn 
make  very  good  centres  for  excursions.  On  no 
account  must  a  visit  to  La  Bresse  be  omitted. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  towns  in  the 
Vosges.  Like  some  of  the  villages  in  the  Morvan 


GfiRARDMER  AND  ENVIRONS      21 

and  in  the  department  of  La  Nievre,  La  Bresse 
remained  till  the  Revolution  an  independent 
commune,  a  republic  in  miniature.  The  heads  of 
families  of  both  sexes  took  part  in  the  election  of 
magistrates,  and  from  this  patriarchal  legislation 
there  was  seldom  any  appeal  to  the  higher  court- 
namely,  that  of  Nancy.  La  Bresse  is  still  a  rich 
commune  by  reason  of  its  forests  and  industries. 
The  sound  of  the  mill-wheel  and  hammer  now 
disturbs  these  mountain  solitudes,  and  although  so 
isolated  by  natural  position,  this  little  town  is  no 
longer  cut  off  from  cosmopolitan  influence.  The 
little  tavern  is  developing  into  a  very  fair  inn.  In 
the  summer  tourists  from  all  parts  of  France  pass 
through  it,  in  carriages,  on  foot,  occasionally  on 
horseback.  Most  likely  it  now  possesses  a  railway 
station,  a  newspaper  kiosk,  and  a  big  hotel,  as  at 
Gerardmer ! 

As  we  drop  down  upon  La  Bresse  after  our 
climb  of  two  hours  and  more,  we  seem  to  be  at 
the  world's  end.  Our  road  has  led  us  higher  and 
higher  by  dense  forests  and  wild  granite  parapets, 
tasselled  with  fern  and  foxglove,  till  we  suddenly 
wheel  round  upon  a  little  straggling  town  mar- 
vellously placed.  Deep  down  it  lies,  amid  fairy- 
like  greenery  and  silvery  streams,  whilst  high 
above  tower  the  rugged  forest  peaks  and  far- 
off  blue  mountains,  in  striking  contrast. 


22     IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE    VOSGES 

The  sloping  green  banks,  starred  with  the  grass 
of  Parnassus,  and  musical  with  a  dozen  streams, 
the  pastoral  dwellings,  each  with  its  patch  of 
flower  garden  and  croft;  the  glades,  dells  and 
natural  terraces  are  all  sunny  and  gracious  as  can 
be;  but  round  about  and  high  above  frown 
inaccessible  granite  peaks,  and  pitchy-black  forest 
summits,  impenetrable  even  at  this  time  of  the 
year.  As  we  look  down  we  see  that  roads  have 
been  cut  round  the  mountain  sides,  and  that  tiny 
homesteads  are  perched  wherever  vantage  ground 
is  to  be  had,  yet  the  impression  is  one  of  isolation 
and  wildness.  The  town  lies  in  no  narrow  cleft, 
as  is  the  case  with  many  little  manufacturing 
towns  in  the  Jura,  but  in  a  vast  opening  and 
falling  back  of  the  meeting  hills  and  mountain 
tops,  so  that  it  is  seen  from  far  and  wide,  and 
long  before  it  is  approached.  We  had  made  the 
first  part  of  our  journey  at  a  snail's  pace.  No 
sooner  were  we  on  the  verge  of  the  hills  looking 
down  upon  La  Bresse,  than  we  set  oif  at  a  des- 
perate rate,  spinning  breathlessly  round  one 
mountain  spur  after  another,  till  we  were  suddenly 
landed  in  the  village  street,  dropped,  as  it 
seemed,  from  a  balloon. 

A  curious  feature  to  be  noted  in  all  the  places 
I  have  mentioned  is  the  outer  wooden  casing  of 
the  houses.  This  is  done  as  a  protection  against 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS      23 

the  cold,  the  Vosges  possessing,  with  the 
Auvergne  and  the  Limousin,  the  severest  climate 
in  France.  La  Bresse,  like  Gerardmer  and  other 
sweet  valleys  of  these  regions,  is  disfigured  by 
huge  factories,  yet  none  can  regret  the  fact, 
seeing  what  well-being  these  industries  bring  to 
the  people.  Beggars  are  numerous,  but  we  are 
told  they  are  strangers,  who  merely  invade  these 
regions  during  the  tourist  season. 

Remiremont,  our  next  halting-place,  may  be 
reached  by  a  pleasant  carriage   drive,   but  the 
railway  is  more  convenient  to  travellers  encum- 
bered  with   half-a-dozen   trunks.    The    railway, 
moreover,  cuts  right  through  the  beautiful  valley 
of  the  Moselle — a  prospect  which  is  missed  by 
road.    Remiremont  is  charming.    We  do  not  get 
the  creature  comforts  of  Gerardmer,  but  by  way 
of  compensation  we  find  a  softer  and  more  genial 
climate.    The  engaging  little  town  is  indeed  one 
of  nature's  sanatoriums.     The  streets  are  kept 
clean  by  swift  rivulets,  and  all  the  air  is  fragrant 
with  encircling  fir-woods.     Like  Gerardmer  and 
La  Bresse,  however,  Remiremont  lies  open  to  the 
sun.    A  belt  of  flowery  dells,  terraced  orchards, 
and  wide   pastures,   amid   which   meanders   the 
clear  blue  Moselle,  girds  it  round  about,  and  no 
matter  which  path  you  take,  it  is  sure  to  lead  to 
inviting  prospects.    The  arcades  lend  a  Spanish 


24  IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

look  to  the  town,  and  recall  the  street  architecture 
of  Lons-le-Saunier  and  Arbois  in  the  Jura. 
Flower  gardens  abound,  and  the  general  atmo- 
sphere is  one  of  prosperity  and  cheerfulness. 

The  historic  interest  of  this  now  dead-alive 
little  town  centres  around  its  lady  abbesses,  who 
for  centuries  held  sovereign  rule  and  state  in  their 
abbatial  palace,  at  the  present  time  the  Hotel  de 
Ville.  These  high-born  dames,  like  certain 
temporal  rulers  of  the  sex,  loved  battle,  and  more 
than  one  chanomesse,  when  defied  by  feudal 
neighbours,  mounted  the  breach  and  directed  her 
people.  One  and  all  were  of  noble  birth,  and 
many  doubtless  possessed  the  intellectual  distinc- 
tion and  personal  charm  of  Renan's  Abbesse  de 
Jouarre. 

There  are  beautiful  walks  about  Remiremont, 
and  one  especial  path  amid  the  fragrant  fir-woods 
leads  to  a  curious  relic  of  ancient  time — a  little 
chapel  formerly  attached  to  a  Lazar-house.  It 
now  belongs  to  the  adjoining  farm  close  by,  a 
pleasant  place,  with  flower-garden  and  orchard. 
High  up  in  the  woods  dominating  the  broad  valley 
in  which  Remiremont  is  placed  are  some  curious 
prehistoric  stones.  But  more  inviting  than  the 
steep  climb  under  a  burning  sun — for  the  weather 
has  changed  on  a  sudden — is  the  drive  to  the 
Vallee  d'Herival,  a  drive  so  cool,  so  soothing,  so 


GfiRARDMER   AND   ENVIRONS      25 

delicious,  that  we  fancy  we  can  never  feel  heated, 
languid,  or  irritated  any  more. 

The  isolated  dwellings  of  the  dalesfolk  in  the 
midst  of  tremendous  solitudes — little  pastoral 
scenes  such  as  Corot  loved  to  paint — and  hemmed 
round  by  the  sternest,  most  rugged  nature,  are 
one  of  the  characteristics  of  Vosges  scenery.  We 
also  find  beside  tossing  rivers  and  glittering 
cascades  a  solitary  linen  factory  or  saw-mill,  with 
the  modern-looking  villa  of  the  employer,  and 
clustered  round  it  the  cottages  of  the  work-people. 
No  sooner  does  the  road  curl  again  than  we  are 
once  more  in  a  solitude  as  complete  as  if  we  were 
in  some  primeval  forest  of  the  new  world.  We 
come  suddenly  upon  the  Vallee  d'Herival,  but 
the  deep  close  gorge  we  gaze  upon  is  only  the 
beginning  of  the  valley  within  valley  we  have 
come  to  see.  Our  road  makes  a  loop  round  the 
valley  so  that  we  see  it  from  two  levels,  and  under 
two  aspects.  As  we  return,  winding  upwards  on 
higher  ground,  we  get  glimpses  of  sunny  dimpled 
sward  through  the  dark  stems  of  the  majestic  fir- 
trees  towering  over  our  head.  There  is  every 
gradation  of  form  and  colour  in  the  picture,  from 
the  ripe  warm  gold  barring  the  branches  of  the 
firs,  to  the  pale  silveriness  of  their  upper  foliage; 
from  the  gigantic  trees  rising  from  the  gorge 
below,  each  seeming  to  fill  a  chasm,  to  the  airy, 


26    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

graceful  birch,  a  mere  toy  beside  it.    Rare  butter- 
flies abound,  but  we  see  few  birds. 

The  hardy  pedestrian  is  an  enviable  person 
here,  for  although  excellent  carriages  are  to  be 
had,  some  of  the  most  interesting  excursions  must 
be  made  on  foot. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  matters  are  very  greatly 
changed  in  hotels  here  since  my  visit  so  many 
years  ago.  In  certain  respects  travellers  fare 
well.  They  may  feast  like  Lucullus  on  fresh 
trout  and  on  the  dainty  aniseed  cakes  which  are 
a  local  speciality.  But  hygienic  arrangements  were 
almost  prehistoric,  and  although  politeness  itself, 
mine  host  and  hostess  showed  strange  non- 
chalance towards  their  guests.  Thus,  when  ring- 
ing and  ringing  again  for  our  tea  and  bread  and 
butter  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock,  the 
chamber — not  maid,  but  man — informed  us  that 
Madame  had  gone  to  mass,  and  everything  was 
locked  up  till  her  return. 

Even  the  fastidious  tourist,  however,  will 
hardly  care  to  exchange  his  somewhat  rough  and 
noisy  quarters  at  Remiremont  for  the  cosmo- 
politan comforts  of  Plombieres  within  such  easy 
reach.  It  is  a  pretty  drive  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
to  Plombieres,  and  all  is  prettiness  there — its 
little  park,  its  tiny  lake,  its  toy  town. 

It  is  surely  one  of  the  hottest  places  in  the 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS      27 

world,  and  like  Spa,  of  which  it  reminds  me, 
must  be  one  of  the  most  wearisome.  Just  such  a 
promenade,  with  a  sleepy  band,  just  such  a  casino, 
just  such  a  routine.  This  favourite  resort  of  the 
third  Napoleon  has  of  late  years  seen  many  rivals 
springing  up.  Vittel,  Bains,  Bussang — all  in  the 
Vosges — yet  it  continues  to  hold  up  its  head.  The 
site  is  really  charming,  but  so  close  is  the  valley 
in  which  the  town  lies,  that  it  is  a  veritable  hot- 
house, and  the  reverse,  we  should  think,  of  what 
an  invalid  wants.  Plombieres  has  always  had 
illustrious  visitors — Montaigne,  who  upon  several 
occasions  took  the  waters  here — Maupertuis, 
Voltaire,  Beaumarchais,  the  Empress  Josephine, 
and  a  host  of  historic  personages.  But  the 
emperor  may  be  called  the  creator  of  Plombieres. 
The  park,  the  fine  road  to  Remiremont,  the  hand- 
some Bain  Napoleon  (now  National),  the  church, 
all  these  owe  their  existence  to  him,  and  during 
the  imperial  visits  the  remote  spot  suffered  a 
strange  transformation.  The  pretty  country  road 
along  which  we  met  a  couple  of  carriages  yester- 
day became  as  brilliant  and  animated  as  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne.  It  was  a  perpetual  coming  and 
going  of  fashionable  personages.  The  emperor 
used  to  drive  over  to  Remiremont  and  dine  at  the 
little  dingy  commercial  hotel,  the  best  in  the 
place,  making  himself  agreeable  to  everybody. 


28    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

But   all   this   is   past,    and   nowhere   throughout 
France  is  patriotism  more  ardent  or  the  demo- 
cratic   spirit    more    alert    than    in    the    Vosges. 
The    reasons    are    obvious.     We    are    here    on 
the  borders  of  the  lost  provinces,  the  two  fair 
and  rich   departments  of   Haut-Rhin  and   Bas- 
Rhin,    now   effaced    from   the    map    of    France. 
Reminders  of  that  painful  severance  of  a  vast 
population  from  its  nationality  are  too  vivid  for 
a  moment  to  be  lost  sight  of.    Many  towns  of  the 
Vosges  and  of  the  ancient  portion  of  Lorraine 
not  annexed,  such  as  Nancy,  have  been  enriched 
by  the   immigration   of   large   commercial   firms 
from  the  other  side  of  the  new  frontier.     The 
great  majority  of  Alsatians,  by  force  of  circum- 
stances and  family  ties,  were  compelled  to  remain 
—French   at   heart,    German   according   to   law. 
The    bitterness    and    intensity    of    this    feeling, 
reined-in  yet  apparent,  constitutes  the  one  painful 
feature  of  Vosges  travel.     Of  course  there  is  a 
wide  difference  between  the  supporters  of  retalia- 
tion,  such  journals  as  L?  Alsacien- Lor  rain,   and 
quiet   folks  who   hate  war,    even   more   than    a 
foreign  domination.     But  the  yearning  towards 
the  parent  country  is  too  strong  to  be  overcome. 
No  wonder  that  as  soon  as  the  holidays  begin 
there    is   a   rush   of   French   tourists   across   the 
Vosges.     From  Strasburg,  Metz,  St.  Marie  aux 


GfiRARDMER  AND   ENVIRONS      29 


Mines,  they  flock  to  Gerardmer  and  other  family 
resorts.  And  if  some  Frenchwoman — maybe, 
sober  matron — dons  the  pretty  Alsatian  dress, 
and  dances  the  Alsatian  dance  with  an  exile 
like  herself,  the  enthusiasm  is  too  great  to  be 
described.  Lookers-on  weep,  shake  hands, 
embrace  each  other.  For  a  brief  moment  the 
calmest  are  carried  away  by  intensity  of  patriotic 
feeling.  The  social  aspect  of  Vosges  travel  is 
one  of  its  chief  charms.  You  must  here  live  with 
French  people,  whether  you  will  or  no.  Insular 
reserve  cannot  resist  the  prevailing  friendliness 
and  good-fellowship.  How  long  such  a  state  of 
things  will  exist,  who  can  say?  Fortunately  for 
the  lover  of  nature,  most  of  the  places  I  have 
mentioned  are  too  unobtrusive  ever  to  become 
popular.  "  Nothing  to  see  here,  and  nothing  to 
do,"  would  surely  be  the  verdict  of  most  globe- 
trotters even  on  sweet  Gerardmer  itself  ! 


'II 

THE   CHARM    OF   ALSACE 


THE   CHARM   OF   ALSACE 

THE  notion  of  here  reprinting  my  notes  of 
Alsatian  travel  was  suggested  by  a  recent  French 
work — A  tr  avers  V Alsace  en  ftdnant,  from  the 
pen  of  M.  Andre  Hallays.  This  delightful  writer 
had  already  published  several  volumes  dealing 
with  various  French  provinces,  more  especially 
from  an  archaeological  point  of  view.  In  his 
latest  and  not  least  fascinating  ftdnerie  he  gives 
the  experiences  of  several  holiday  tours  in 
Germanized  France. 

My  own  sojourns,  made  at  intervals  among 
French  friends,  annexes  both  of  Alsace  and 
Lorraine,  were  chiefly  undertaken  in  order  to 
realize  the  condition  of  the  German  Emperor's 
French  subjects.  But  I  naturally  visited  many 
picturesque  sites  and  historic  monuments  in  both, 
the  forfeited  territories  being  especially  rich. 
Whilst  volume  after  volume  of  late  years  have 
appeared  devoted  to  French  travel,  holiday 
tourists  innumerable  jotting  their  brief  experiences 
of  well-known  regions,  strangely  enough  no 
English  writer  has  followed  my  own  example. 
No  work  has  here  appeared  upon  Alsace  an'd 
D  33 


34     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Lorraine.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Channel  a 
vast  literature  on  the  subject  has  sprung  up. 
Novels,  travels,  reminiscences,  pamphlets  on 
political  and  economic  questions,  one  and  all 
breathing  the  same  spirit,  continue  to  appear  in 
undiminished  numbers. 

Ardent  spirits  still  fan  the  flame  of  revolt. 
The  burning  thirst  for  re-integration  remains 
unquenched.  Garbed  in  crape,  the  marble  figure 
of  Strasburg  still  holds  her  place  on  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  The  French  language,  although 
rigidly  prohibited  throughout  Germanized  France, 
is  studied  and  upheld  more  sedulously  than  before 
Sedan.  And  after  the  lapse  of  forty  years  a 
German  minister  lately  averred  that  French 
Alsatians  were  more  French  than  ever.  Les 
Noellets  of  Rene  Bazin,  M.  Maurice  Barres' 
impassioned  series,  Les  Bastions  de  VEst,  enjoy 
immense  popularity,  and  within  the  last  few 
months  have  appeared  two  volumes  which  fully 
confirm  the  views  of  their  forerunners — M .  H  allays' 
impressions  of  many  wayfarings  and  Apres 
quarante  ans  by  M.  Jules  Claretie,  the  versatile, 
brilliant  and  much  respected  administrator- 
general  of  the  Comedie  Francaise. 

Whilst  in  these  days  of  peace  and  arbitration 
propaganda  the  crime  of  enforced  denationaliza- 
tion seems  more  heinous  than  ever,  there  appears 


THE   CHARM   OF   ALSACE  35 

little  likelihood  of  the  country  conquered  by 
Louis  XIV.,  and  re-conquered  by  German  arms  a 
century  and  a  half  later,  again  waving  the 
Tricolour. 

Let  us  hope,  however,  that  some  via  media  may 
be  found,  and  that  if  not  recovering  its  lost 
privilege,  the  passionately  coveted  French  name, 
as  a  federal  state  Alsace  and  Lorraine  may 
become  independent  and  prosperous. 

For  a  comprehensive  study  of  Alsace  and  its 
characteristics,  alike  social,  artistic  and  intellec- 
tual, readers  must  go  to  M.  Hallays'  volume. 
In  every  development  this  writer  shows  that  a 
special  stamp  may  be  found.  Neither  Teutonic 
nor  Gallic,  art  and  handicrafts  reveal  indigenous 
growth,  and  the  same  feature  may  be  studied  in 
town  and  village,  in  palace,  cathedral  and  cottage. 

We  must  remember  that  we  are  here  dealing 
with  a  region  of  very  ancient  civilization.  Taste 
has  been  slowly  developed,  artistic  culture  is  of 
no  mushroom  growth.  Alsace  formed  the  high- 
road between  Italy  and  Flanders.  In  M.  Hallays' 
words,  already  during  the  Renaissance,  aesthetic 
Alsace  blended  the  lessons  of  north  and  south, 
her  genius  was  a  product  of  good  sense,  experi- 
ence and  a  feeling  of  proportion.  And  he  points 
out  how  in  the  eighteenth  century  French  taste 
influenced  Alsatian  faience,  woven  stuffs,  iron- 


D    2 


36     IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

work,  sculpture,  wood-carving  and  furniture, 
even  peasant  interiors  being  thereby  modified. 
"Alsace,"  he  writes,  "holds  us  spell-bound  by 
the  originality  of  culture  and  temperament  found 
among  her  inhabitants.  It  has  generally  been 
taken  for  granted  that  native  genius  is  here  a 
mere  blend  of  French  and  German  character,  that 
Alsatian  sentiment  appertains  to  the  latter  stock, 
intellectual  development  to  the  former,  that  the 
inhabitants  think  in  French  and  imagine  in 
German.  There  is  a  certain  leaven  of  truth  in 
these  assumptions,  but  when  we  hold  continued 
intercourse  with  all  classes,  listen  to  their  speech, 
familiarize  ourselves  with  their  modes  of  life  and 
mental  outlook,  we  arrive  again  and  again  at  one 
conclusion :  we  say  to  ourselves,  here  is  an 
element  which  is  neither  Teutonic  nor  Gallic. 
I  cannot  undertake  to  particularize,  I  only  note 
in  my  pages  those  instances  that  occur  by  the  way. 
And  the  conviction  that  we  are  here  penetrating 
a  little  world  hitherto  unknown  to  us,  such 
novelty  being  revealed  in  every  stroll  and  chat, 
lends  extraordinary  interest  to  our  peregrination." 
It  is  especially  an  artistic  Alsace  that 
M.  Hallays  reveals  to  us.  Instead  of  visit- 
ing battlefields,  he  shows  us  that  English 
travellers  may  find  ample  interest  of  other  kind. 
The  artist,  the  ecclesiologist,  the  art-loving  have 


THE   CHARM  OF   ALSACE  87 

here   a   storehouse   of   unrevealed   treasure.      A 
little-read  but  weighty  writer,  Mme.  He  Stael,  has 
truly  averred  that  the  most  beautiful  lands  in  the 
world,  if  devoid  of  famous  memories  and  if  bear- 
ing no  impress  of  great  events,  cannot  be  compared 
in  interest  to  historic  regions.    Hardly  a  spot  of 
the  annexed  provinces  but  is  stamped  with  in- 
delible and,  alas !  blood-stained  records.     From 
the  tenth  century  until  the  peace  of  Westphalia, 
these  territories  belonged  to  the  German  empire, 
being  ruled  by  sovereign  dukes  and  princes.     In 
1648  portions  of  both  provinces  were  cede'd  to 
France,  and  a  few  years  later,  in  times  of  peace, 
Strasburg  was  ruthlessly  seized  and  appropriated 
by  the  arch-despot  and   militarist,  Louis  XIV. 
By  the  treaty  of  Ryswick,  that  of  Westphalia 
was    ratified,    and    thenceforward    Alsace    and 
Lorraine    remained    radically    and    passionately 
French.    In  1871  was  witnessed  an  awful  historic 
retribution,  a  political  crime  paralleling  its  pre- 
decessor committed  by  the  French  king  two  cen- 
turies before.     Alsace-Lorraine  still  awaits  the 
fulfilment  of  her  destiny.     Meantime,  as  Rachel 
mourning  for  her  children,  she  weeps  sore  and  will 
not  be  comforted. 

Historically  speaking,  therefore,  the  annexed 
provinces  present  a  strangely  complex  patchwork 
and  oft-repeated  palimpsest,  civilization  after 


38    IN  THE   HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

civilization  overlapping  each  other.  If  Alsace- 
Lorraine  has  produced  no  Titan  either  in 
literature  or  art,  she  yet  shows  a  goodly  roll- 
call. 

The  name  heading  the  list  stands  for  France 
herself.  It  was  a  young  soldier  of  Strasburg — 
not,  however,  Alsatian  born — who,  in  April,  1792, 
composed  a  song  that  saved  France  from  the  fate 
of  Poland  and  changed  the  current  of  civilization. 
By  an  irony  of  destiny  the  Tricolour  no  longer 
waves  over  the  cradle  of  the  Marseillaise  ! 

That  witty  writer,  Edmond  About,  as  well  as 
the  "  Heavenly  Twins "  of  Alsatian  fiction,  was 
born  in  Lorraine,  but  all  three  so  thoroughly 
identified  themselves  with  this  province  that  they 
must  be  regarded  as  her  sons.  Those  travellers 
who,  like  myself,  have  visited  Edmond  About' s 
woodland  retreat  in  Saverne  can  understand  the 
bitterness  with  which  he  penned  his  volume — 
Alsace  1870-1 — and  the  concluding  lines  of  the 
preface — 

"  If  I  have  here  uttered  an  untrue  syllable,  I 
give  M.  de  Bismarck  permission  to  treat  my 
modest  dwelling  as  if  it  were  a  villa  of  Saint 
Cloud." 

The  literary  brethren  whose  pictures  of  Alsa- 
tian peasant  life,  both  in  war  and  peace,  have 
become  world-wide  classics,  suffered  no  less  than 


THE   CHARM  OF  ALSACE  39 

their  brilliant  contemporary,  and  their  works 
written  after  annexation  breathe  equal  bitter- 
ness. The  celebrated  partnership  which  began  in 
1848  and  lasted  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  has 
been  thus  described  by  Edmond  About :  "  The 
two  friends  see  each  other  very  rarely,  whether 
in  Paris  or  in  the  Vosges.  When  they  do  meet, 
they  together  elaborate  the  scheme  of  a  new  work. 
Then  Erckmann  writes  it.  Chatrian  corrects  it 
— and  sometimes  puts  it  in  the  fire !  "  One  at 
least  of  their  plays  enjoys  equal  popularity  with 
the  novel  from  which  it  is  drawn.  To  have 
witnessed  L'Ami  Frits  at  Moliere's  house  in  the 
last  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  an 
experience  to  remember.  That  consummate 
artist,  Got,  was  at  his  very  best — if  the  superlative 
in  such  a  case  is  applicable — as  the  good  old 
Rabbi.  No  less  enchanting  was  Mile.  Reichen- 
bach,  the  doyenne  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  as 
Suzel.  Of  this  charming  artist  Sarcey  wrote  that, 
having  attained  her  sixteenth  year,  there  she  marde 
the  long-stop,  never  oldening  with  others.  UAmi 
'Fritz  is,  in  reality,  a  German  bucolic,  the  scene 
being  laid  in  Bavaria.  But  it  has  long  been 
accepted  as  a  classic,  and  on  the  stage  it  becomes 
thoroughly  French.  This  delightful  story  was 
written  in  1864,  that  is  to  say,  before  any  war- 
cloud  had  arisen  over  the  eastern  frontier,  and 


40    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

before  the  evocation  of  a  fiend  as  terrible,  the 
anti-Jewish  crusade  culminating  in  the  Dreyfus 
crime. 

It  is  painful  to  reflect  that  whilst  twenty  years 
ago  the  engaging  old  Jew  of  this  piece  was 
vociferously  acclaimed  on  the  first  French  stage, 
the  drama  of  a  gifted  Jewish  writer  has  this  year 
been  banned  in  Paris  ! 

Edmond  About  and  Erckmann  and  Chatrian 
belong  to  the  same  period  as  another  native,  and 
more  famous,  genius,  the  precocious,  superabun- 
dantly endowed  Gustave  Dore.  Of  this  "  admir- 
able Crichton  "  I  give  a  sketch. 

For  mere  holiday-makers  in  search  of  exhilara- 
tion and  beauty,  Alsace  offers  attractions  innumer- 
able, sites  grandiose  and  idyllic,  picturesque 
ruins,  superb  forests,  old  churches  of  rare  interest 
and  many  a  splendid  historic  pile. 

There  are  naturally  drawbacks  to  intense  lovers 
of  France.  Throughout  M.  Hallays5  volume  he 
acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  German  officials,  a 
fact  to  which  I  had  borne  testimony  when  first 
journalizing  my  own  experiences.  Certain  aspects 
of  enforced  Germanization  can  but  afflict  all  out- 
siders. There  is  firstly  that  obtrusive  militarism 
from  which  we  cannot  for  a  moment  escape. 
Again,  a  no  less  false  note  strikes  us  in  matters 
aesthetic.  Modern  German  taste  in  art,  archi- 


THE   CHARM  OF  ALSACE          41 

tecture  and  decoration  do  not  harmonize  with  the 
ancientness  and  historic  severity  of  Alsace.  The 
restoration  of  Hohkonigsburg  and  the  new 
quarters  of  Strasburg  are  instances  in  point.  All 
who  visited  the  German  art  section  of  the  Paris 
Exhibition  in  1900  will  understand  this  dis- 
harmony. 

The  reminiscences  of  my  second  and  third 
journeys  in  Alsace  and  Lorraine  having  already 
appeared  in  volume  form,  still  in  print  (East  oft 
Paris),  are  therefore  omitted  here.  For  the 
benefit  of  English  travellers  in  the  annexed 
portion  of  the  last-named  province  I  cite  a  passage 
from  M.  Maurice  Barres'  beautiful  story,  Colette 
Baudoche.  His  hero  is  German  and  his  heroine 
French,  a  charming  Messlne  or  native  of  Metz. 
In  company  of  Colette's  mother  and  a  friend  or 
two,  the  fiances  take  part  in  a  little  festival  held 
at  Gorze,  a  village  near  the  blood-stained  fields  of 
Gravelotte  and  Mars-la-Tour — • 

"At  Gorze,  church,  lime-trees,  dwellings  and 
folks  belong  to  the  olden  time,  that  is  to  say, 
all  are  very  French.  ...  In  crossing  the  square 
the  five  holiday-makers  halted  before  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  and  read  with  interest  a  commemorative 
inscription  on  the  walls.  A  tablet  records  English 
generosity  in  1870,  when,  after  the  carnage  and 
devastation  of  successive  battles,  money,  roots 


42     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

and  seeds  were  distributed  among  the  peasants  by 
a  relief  committee.  The  inspection  over,  the 
little  party  gaily  sat  clown  to  dinner  in  an  inn 
close  by,  regaling  themselves  with  fried  English 
potatoes,  descendants  of  those  sent  across  the 
Manche  forty  years  before." 

As  I  re-read  this  passage  I  think  sadly  how 
the  tribute  from  such  a  pen  would  have  rejoiced 
the  two  moving  spirits  of  that  famous  relief  com- 
mittee— Sir  John  Robinson  and  Mr.  Bullock  Hall, 
both  long  since  passed  away.  To  the  whilom 
editor  of  the  Daily  News  both  initiative  and 
realization  were  mainly  owing,  the  latter  being 
the  laborious  and  devoted  agent  of  distribution. 

But  an  omission  caused  bitterness.  Whilst  Mr. 
Bullock  Hall  most  deservedly  received  the  Red 
Ribbon,  his  leader  was  overlooked.  The  tens  of 
thousands  of  pounds  collected  by  Sir  John  Robin- 
son which  may  be  said  to  have  kept  alive  starving 
people  and  vivified  deserts,  were  gratefully 
acknowledged  by  the  French  Government.  By 
some  unaccountable  misconception,  the  decora- 
tion here  only  gratified  one  good  friend  of  France. 

"I  should  much  have  liked  the  Legion  of 
Honour,"  sighed  the  kindly  old  editor  to  me,  a 
year  or  two  before  he  Hied. 

I  add  that  my  second  sojourn  in  Alsace-Lorraine 
was  made  at  Sir  John's  suggestion,  the  series  of 


THE   CHARM   OF  ALSACE  43 

papers  dealing  with  Metz,  Strasburg,  and  its 
neighbourhood  appearing  from  day  to  day  in 
the  Daily  News. 

English  tourists  must  step  aside  and  read  the 
tablet  on  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Gorze,  reminder, 
by  the  way,  of  the  Entente  Cordiale  ! 


Ill 

IN   GUSTAVE  DORE'S   COUNTRY 


IN   GUSTAVE   DORfi'S   COUNTRY 

THE  Vosges  and  Alsace-Lorraine  must  be 
taken  together,  as  the  tourist  is  constantly  com- 
pelled to  zigzag  across  the  new  frontier.  Many 
of  the  most  interesting  points  of  departure  for 
excursionizing  in  the  Vosges  lie  in  Alsace- 
Lorraine,  while  few  travellers  who  have  got  so 
far  as  Gerardmer  or  St.  Die  will  not  be  tempted 
to  continue  their  journey,  at  least  as  far  as  the 
beautiful  valleys  of  Miinster  and  St.  Marie-aux- 
Mines,  both  peopled  by  French  people  under 
German  domination.  Arrived  at  either  of  these 
places,  the  tourist  will  be  at  a  loss  which  route  to 
take  of  the  many  open  to  him.  On  the  one  hand 
are  the  austere  sites  of  the  Vosges,  impenetrable 
forests  darkening  the  rounded  mountain  tops, 
granite  precipices  silvered  with  perpetual  cas- 
cades, awful  ravines  hardly  less  gloomy  in  the 
noonday  sun  than  in  wintry  storms,  and  as  a  relief 
to  these  sombre  features,  the  sunniest  little  home- 
steads perched  on  airy  terraces  of  gold-green; 
crystal  streams  making  vocal  the  flowery  meadow 
and  the  mossy  dell,  and  lovely  little  lakes  shut  in 

47 


48    IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

by  rounded  hills,  made  double  in  their  mirror.  In 
Alsace-Lorraine  we  find  a  wholly  different  land- 
scape, and  are  at  once  reminded  that  we  are  in 
one  of  the  fairest  and  most  productive  districts  of 
Europe.  All  the  vast  Alsatian  plain  in  September 
is  a-bloom  with  fruit  garden  and  orchard,  vineyard 
and  cornfield,  whilst  as  a  gracious  framework,  a 
romantic  background  to  the  picture,  are  the  vine- 
clad  heights  crested  with  ruined  castles  and 
fortresses  worthy  to  be  compared  to  Heidelberg 
and  Ehrenbreitstein.  We  had  made  a  leisurely 
journey  from  Gerardmer  to  St.  Die,  bishopric  and 
chef -lieu  of  the  department  of  the  Vosges,  with- 
out feeling  sure  of  our  next  move.  Fortunately 
a  French  acquaintance  advised  us  to  drive  to 
St.  Marie-aux-Mines,  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
little  spots  in  these  regions,  of  which  we  had  never 
before  heard.  A  word  or  two,  however,  concern- 
ing St.  Die  itself,  one  of  the  most  ancient 
monastic  foundations  in  France.  The  town  is 
pleasant  enough,  and  the  big  hotel  not  bad,  as 
French  hotels  go.  But  in  the  Vosges,  the  tourist 
gets  somewhat  spoiled  in  the  matter  of  hotels. 
Wherever  we  go  our  hosts  are  so  much  interested 
in  us,  and  make  so  much  of  us,  that  we  feel 
aggrieved  at  sinking  into  mere  numbers  three  or 
four.  Many  of  these  little  inns  offer  homely 
accommodation,  but  the  landlord  and  landlady 


IN   GUSTAVE   BORE'S   COUNTRY     49 

themselves  wait  upon  the  guests,  unless,  which 
often  happens,  the  host  is  cook,  no  piece  of  ill- 
fortune  for  the  traveller!  These  good  people 
have  none  of  the  false  shame  often  conspicuous 
among  the  same  class  in  England.  At  Remire- 
mont,  our  hostess  came  bustling  down  at  the  last 
moment  saying  how  she  had  hurried  to  change 
her  dress  in  order  to  bid  us  good-bye.  Here  the 
son-in-law,  a  fine  handsome  fellow,  was  the  cook, 
and  when  dinner  was  served  he  used  to  emerge 
from  his  kitchen  and  chat  with  the  guests  or  play 
with  his  children  in  the  cool  evening  hour.  There 
is  none  of  that  differentiation  of  labour  witnessed 
in  England,  and  on  the  whole  the  stranger  fares 
none  the  worse.  With  regard  to  French  hotels 
generally  the  absence  of  competition  in  large 
towns  strikes  an  English  mind.  At  St.  Die,  as 
in  many  other  places,  there  was  at  the  time  of 
my  visit  but  one  hotel,  which  had  doubtless  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  simply 
because  no  rival  aroused  a  spirit  of  emulation. 

St.  Die  has  a  pleasant  environment  in  the  valley 
of  the  Meurthe,  and  may  be  made  the  centre  of 
many  excursions.  Its  picturesque  old  Roman- 
esque cathedral  of  red  sandstone,  about  which  are 
grouped  noble  elms,  grows  upon  the  eye;  more 
interesting  and  beautiful  by  far  are  the  Gothic 
cloisters  leading  from  within  to  the  smaller 


50    IN  THE  HEART   OF  THE  VOSGES 

church  adjoining.  These  delicate  arcades,  in  part 
restored,  form  a  quadrangle.  Greenery  fills  the 
open  space,  and  wild  antirrhinum  and  harebell 
brighten  the  grey  walls.  Springing  from  one  side 
is  an  out-of-door  pulpit  carved  in  stone,  a  striking 
and  suggestive  object  in  the  midst  of  the  quiet 
scene.  We  should  like  to  know  what  was 
preached  from  that  stone  pulpit,  and  what  manner 
of  man  was  the  preacher.  The  bright  green 
space,  the  delicate  arcades  of  soft  grey,  the  bits 
of  foliage  here  and  there,  with  the  two  silent 
churches  blocking  in  all,  make  up  an  impressive 
scene. 

We  wanted  the  country,  however,  rather  than 
the  towns,  so  after  a  few  days  at  St.  Die,  hired 
a  carriage  to  take  us  to  St.  Marie-aux-Mines  or 
Markirch,  on  the  German  side  of  the  frontier,  and 
not  accessible  from  this  side  by  rail.  We  enter 
Alsace,  indeed,  by  a  needle's  eye,  so  narrow  the 
pass  in  which  St.  Marie  lies.  Here  a  word  of 
warning  to  the  tourist.  Be  sure  to  examine  your 
carriage  and  horses  well  before  starting.  We 
were  provided  for  our  difficult  drive  with  what 
Spenser  calls  "two  unequal  beasts,"  namely,  a 
trotting  horse  and  a  horse  that  could  only  canter, 
with  a  very  uncomfortable  carriage,  the  turnout 
costing  over  a  pound — pretty  well,  that,  for  a 
three  hours'  drive.  However,  in  spite  of  dis- 


IN  GUSTAVE  DORfi'S   COUNTRY    51 

comfort,  we  would  not  have  missed  the  journey  on 
any  account.  The  site  of  this  little  cotton-spinning 
town  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  in  the  world. 
We  first  traverse  a  fruitful,  well  cultivated  plain, 
watered  by  the  sluggish  Meurthe,  then  begin  to 
ascend  a  spur  of  the  western  chain  of  the  Vosges, 
formerly  dividing  the  two  French  departments  of 
Vosges  and  Haut  Rhin,  now  marking  the  boun- 
daries of  France  and  German  Elsass.  Down 
below,  amid  the  hanging  orchards,  flower-gardens 
and  hayfields,  we  were  on  French  soil,  but  the 
flagstaff,  just  discernible  on  yonder  green 
pinnacles,  marks  the  line  of  demarcation  between 
France  and  the  conquered  territory  of  the  German 
empire.  For  the  matter  of  that,  the  Prussian 
helmet  makes  the  fact  patent.  As  surely  as  we 
have  set  foot  in  the  Reich,  we  see  one  of  these 
gleaming  casques,  so  hateful  still  in  French  eyes. 
They  seem  to  spring  from  the  ground  like  Jason's 
warriors  from  the  dragon's  teeth.  This  new 
frontier  divided  in  olden  times  the  dominions  of 
Alsace  and  Lorraine,  when  it  was  the  custom  to 
say  of  many  villages  that  the  bread  was  kneaded 
in  one  country  and  baked  in  the  other. 

Nothing  could  be  more  lovely  than  the  dim 
violet  hills  far  away,  and  the  virginal  freshness 
of  the  pastoral  scenery  around.  But  only  a  stout- 
hearted pedestrian  can  properly  enjoy  this  beau- 

E   2 


52     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

tiful  region.  We  had  followed  the  example  of 
another  party  of  tourists  in  front  of  us,  and  accom- 
plished a  fair  climb  on  foot,  and  when  we  had 
wound  and  wound  our  way  up  the  lofty  green 
mountain  to  the  flagstaff  before  mentioned,  we 
wanted  to  do  the  rest  of  our  journey  on  foot  also. 
But  alike  compassion  for  the  beasts  and  energy 
had  gone  far  enough,  we  were  only  too  glad  to 
reseat  ourselves,  and  drive,  or  rather  be  whirled, 
down  to  St.  Marie-aux-Mines  in  the  vehicle.  Do 
what  we  would  there  was  no  persuading  our 
driver  to  slacken  pace  enough  so  as  to  admit  of  a 
full  enjoyment  of  the  prospect  that  unfolded 
before  us. 

The  wonderful  little  town !  Black  pearl  set 
in  the  richest  casket !  This  commonplace,  flourish- 
ing centre  of  cotton  spinning,  woollen,  and 
cretonne  manufacture,  built  in  red  brick,  lies  in 
the  narrow,  beautiful  valley  of  the  Liepvrette, 
as  it  is  called  from  the  babbling  river  of  that 
name.  But  there  is  really  no  valley  at  all.  The 
congeries  of  red-roofed  houses,  factory  chimneys 
and  church  towers,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  is 
hemmed  round  by  a  narrow  gorge,  wedged  in 
between  the  hills  which  are  just  parted  so  as  to 
admit  of  such  an  intrusion,  no  more.  The  green 
convolutions  of  the  mountain  sides  are  literally 
folded  round  the  town,  a  pile  of  green  velvet 


IN   GUSTAVE   DORA'S   COUNTRY    53 


spread   fan-like  in  a   draper's  window  has  not 
softer,  neater  folds  !     As  we  enter  it  from  the  St. 
Die  side  we  find  just  room  for  a  carriage  to  wind 
along  the  little  river  and  the  narrow  street.     But 
at  the  other  end  the  valley  opens,  and  St.  Marie- 
aux-mines  spreads  itself  out.    Here  are  factories, 
handsome  country  houses,  and  walks  up-hill  and 
down-hill  in  abundance.     Just  above  the  town, 
over  the  widening  gorge,  is  a   deliciously  cool 
pine-wood  which  commands  a  vast  prospect — the 
busy  little  town  caught  in  the  toils  of  the  green 
hills ;  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Meurthe  as  we  gaze 
in  the  direction  from  which  we  have  come;;  the 
no  less  fertile  plains  of  Lorraine  before  us;  close 
under  and  around  us,  many  a  dell  and  woodland 
covert  with  scattered  homes  of  dalesfolk  in  sunny 
places  and  slanting  hills  covered  with  pines.     It 
is  curious  to  reflect  that   St.   Marie-aux-Mines, 
mentioned  as  Markirch  in  ancient  charts,  did  not 
become  entirely  French  till  the  eighteenth  century. 
Originally  the  inhabitants  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Liepvrette    were    subjects    of    the    Dukes    of 
Lorraine,   spoke    French,  and  belonged   to   the 
Catholic  persuasion,  whilst  those  dwelling  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river,  adhered  to  the  seigneury 
of  Ribeaupaire,  and  formed  a  Protestant  German- 
speaking     community.     Alsace,     as     everybody 
knows,  was  annexed  to  France  by  right — rather 


54     IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

wrong — of  conquest  under  Louis  XIV.,  but  it  was 
not  till  a  century  later  that  Lorraine  became  a 
part  of  French  territory,  and  the  fusion  of  races, 
a  task  so  slowly  accomplished,  has  now  to  be 
undone,  if,  indeed,  such  undoing  is  possible ! 

The  hotel  here  is  a  mere  auberge  adapted  to 
the  needs  of  the  commis-voyageur,  but  our  host 
and  hostess  are  charming.  As  is  the  fashion  in 
these  parts,  they  serve  their  guests  and  take  the 
greatest  possible  interest  in  their  movements  and 
comfort.  We  would  willingly  have  spent  some 
days  at  Marie-aux-Mines — no  better  head- 
quarters for  excursionizing  in  these  regions ! — 
but  too  much  remained  for  us  to  do  and  to  see 
in  Alsace.  We  dared  not  loiter  on  the  way. 

Everywhere  we  find  plenty  of  French  tourists, 
many  of  them  doing  their  holiday  travel  in  the 
most  economical  fashion.  We  are  in  the  habit 
of  regarding  the  French  as  a  stay-at-home  nation, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  mistake  arises. 
English  people  seldom  travel  in  out-of-the-way 
France,  and  our  neighbours  seldom  travel  else- 
where. Thus  holiday-makers  of  the  two  nations 
do  not  come  in  contact.  Wherever  we  go  we 
encounter  bands  of  pedestrians  or  family  parties 
thoroughly  enjoying  themselves.  Nothing  ruffles 
a  French  mind  when  bent  on  holiday-making. 
The  good-nature,  bonhomie,  and  accommodating 


IN   GUSTAVE   DORfi'S   COUNTRY     55 

spirit  displayed  under  trying  circumstances  might 
be  imitated  by  certain  insular  tourists  with 
advantage. 

From  St.  Marie-aux-Mines  we  journeyed  to 
Gustave  Dore's  favourite  resort,  Barr,  a  close, 
unsavoury  little  town  enough,  but  in  the  midst  of 
bewitching  scenery.  "  An  ounce  of  sweet  is  worth 
a  pound  of  sour,"  sings  Spenser,  and  at  Barr  we 
get  the  sweet  and  the  sour  strangely  mixed.  The 
narrow  streets  smell  of  tanneries  and  less  whole- 
some nuisances,  not  a  breath  of  fresh  pure  air 
is  to  be  had  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the 
other.  But  our  pretty,  gracious  landlady,  an 
Alsacienne,  and  her  husband,  the  master  of  the 
house  and  chef  de  cuisine  as  well,  equally  hand- 
some and  courteous,  took  so  much  pains  to  make 
us  comfortable  that  we  stayed  on  and  on.  Not 
a  thousand  bad  smells  could  drive  us  away !  Yet 
there  is  accommodation  for  the  traveller  among  the 
vineyards  outside  the  town,  and  also  near  the 
railway  station,  so  Barr  need  not  be  avoided  on 
account  of  its  unsavouriness.  No  sooner  are  you 
beyond  the  dingy  streets  than  all  is  beauty, 
pastoralness  and  romance.  Every  green  peak  is 
crested  with  ruined  keep  or  tower,  at  the  foot 
of  the  meeting  hills  lie  peaceful  little  villages, 
each  with  its  lofty  church  spire,  whilst  all  the  air 
is  fragrant  with  pine-woods  and  newly  turned  hay. 


56     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

These  pine-woods  and  frowning  ruins  set  like 
sentinels  on  every  green  hill  or  rocky  eminence, 
recall  many  of  Dore's  happiest  efforts.  "  Le 
pauvre  garcon"  our  hostess  said.  "  Comme  il 
etait  content  chez  nous  !  )}  I  can  fancy  how  Dore 
would  enjoy  the  family  life  of  our  little  old- 
fashioned  hotel,  how  he  would  play  with  the 
children,  chat  with  master  and  mistress,  and  make 
himself  agreeable  all  round.  One  can  also  fancy 
how  animated  conversation  would  become  if  it 
chanced  to  take  a  patriotic  turn.  For  people  speak 
their  thoughts  in  Alsace, — nowhere  more  freely.  In 
season  and  out  of  season,  the  same  sentiment  conies 
to  the  surface.  "Nous  sommes  -plus  Francais 
que  les  Franfais"  This  is  the  universal  expression 
of  feeling  that  greeted  our  ears  throughout  our 
wanderings.  Such,  at  least,  was  formerly  the 
case.  The  men,  women  and  children,  rich  and 
poor,  learned  and  simple,  gave  utterance  to  the 
same  expression  of  feeling.  Barr  is  a  town  of 
between  six  and  seven  thousand  souls,  about 
twenty  of  whom  are  Prussians.  A  pleasant  posi- 
tion, truly,  for  the  twenty  officials  !  And  what  we 
see  at  Barr  is  the  case  throughout  the  newly 
acquired  German  dominion.  Alike  the  highest  as 
well  as  the  humblest  functionary  of  the  imperial 
government  is  completely  shut  off  from  inter- 
course with  his  French  neighbours. 


IN   GUSTAVE   DORA'S   COUNTRY    57 

Barr  lies  near  so  much  romantic  scenery  that 
the  tourist  in  these  parts  had  better  try  the  little 
hotel  amid  the  mines.  For,  in  spite  of  the  pictur- 
esque stork's  nest  close  by,  an  excellent  ordinary 
and  the  most  delightful  host  and  hostess  in  the 
world,  I  cannot  recommend  a  sojourn  in  the  heart 
of  the  town.  The  best  plan  of  all  were  to  halt 
here  simply  for  the  sake  of  the  excursion  to  St. 
Odile — St.  Odile  leads  nowhither — then  hire  a 
carriage,  and  make  leisurely  way  across  country 
by  the  Hohwald,  and  the  Champ  de  Feu  to 
Rothau,  Oberlin's  country,  thence  to  Strasburg. 
In  our  own  case,  the  fascinations  of  our  hosts 
overcame  our  repugnance  to  Barr  itself,  so  we 
stayed  on,  every  day  making  long  drives  into  the 
fresh,  quiet,  beautiful  country.  One  of  the  sweet 
spots  we  discovered  for  the  benefit  of  any  English 
folks  who  may  chance  to  stray  in  that  region  is 
the  Hohwald,  a  ville giatura  long  in  vogue  with 
the  inhabitants  of  Strasburg  and  neighbouring 
towns,  but  not  mentioned  in  any  English  guide- 
book at  the  time  of  my  visit. 

We  are  reminded  all  the  way  of  Rhineland. 
The  same  terraced  vineyards,  the  same  limestone 
crags,  each  with  its  feudal  tower,  the  same  fertility 
and  richness  everywhere.  Our  road  winds  for  miles 
amid  avenues  of  fruit-trees,  laden  with  pear  and 
plum,  whilst  on  every  side  are  stretches  of  flax 


58     IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE    VOSGES 

and  corn,  tobacco  and  hemp.    What  plenty  and 
fruitfulness  are  suggested  at  every  turn !     Well 
might  Goethe  extol  "this  magnificent  Alsace." 
We  soon  reach  Andlau,  a  picturesque,  but,  it  must 
be  confessed,  somewhat  dirty  village,  lying  amid 
vineyards    and   chestnut  woods,   with  mediaeval 
gables,  archways,  wells,  dormers.    All  these  are  to 
be  found  at  Andlau,  also  one  of  the  finest  churches 
in  these  parts.    I  followed  the  cure  and  sacristan 
as  they  took  a  path  that  wound  high  above  the 
village  and  the  little  river  amid  the  vineyards, 
and  obtained  a  beautiful  picture;  hill  and  dale, 
clustered    village    and    lofty    spire,     and    im- 
posingly, confronting  us  at  every  turn,  the  fine 
fagade  of  the  castle  of  Andlau,  built  of  grey 
granite,  and  flanked  at  either  end  with  massive 
towers.    More  picturesque,  but  less  majestic  are 
the  neighbouring  ruins  of  Spesburg,  mere  tumbling 
walls  wreathed  with  greenery,  and  many  another 
castled  crag  we  see  on  our  way.    We  are  indeed 
in  the  land  of  old  romance.    Nothing  imaginable 
more  weird,    fantastic  and   sombre,   than   these 
spectral  castles  and  crumbling  towers  past  count- 
ing !    The  wide  landscape  is  peopled  with  these. 
They  seem  to  rise  as  if  by  magic  from  the  level 
landscape,  and  we  fancy  that  they  will  disappear 
magically  as  they  have  come.     And  here  again 
one  wild  visionary  scene  after  another  reminds 


IN  GUSTAVE   DORE'S   COUNTRY     59 

us  that  we  are  in  the  land  of  Bore's  most  original 
inspiration.  There  are  bits  of  broken  pine-wood, 
jagged  peaks  and  ghostly  ruins  that  have  been 
already  made  quite  familiar  to  us  in  the  pages  of 
his  Dante  and  Don  Quixote. 

The  pretty  rivulet  Andlau  accompanies  us  far 
on  our  way,  and  beautiful  is  the  road ;  high  above, 
beech-  and  pine-woods,  and  sloping  down  to  the 
road  green  banks  starred  with  large  blue  and 
white  campanula,  with,  darkling  amid  the  alders, 
the  noisy  little  river. 

The  Hohwald  is  the  creation  of  a  woman ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  Hohwald  of  holiday-makers,  tourists 
and  tired  brain-workers.  "Can  you  imagine," 
wrote  M.  Edmond  About,  forty  years  ago,  "an 
inn  at  the  world's  end  that  cost  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  the  building?  I  assure  you  the 
owner  will  soon  have  recouped  her  outlay.  She 
had  not  a  centime  to  begin  with,  this  courageous 
lady,  left  a  widow  without  resources,  and  a  son 
to  bring  up.  The  happy  thought  occurred  to  her 
of  a  summer  resort  in  the  heart  of  these  glorious 
woods,  within  easy  reach  of  Strasburg."  There 
are  gardens  and  reception-rooms  in  common,  and 
here  as  at  Gerardmer  croquet,  music  and  the 
dance  offer  an  extra  attraction.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  these  big  family  hotels,  in  attractive 
country  places  with  prices  adapted  to  all  travel- 


60    IN   THE   HEART  OF  THE   VOSGES 

lers,  have  many  advantages  over  our  own  seaside 
lodgings.  People  get  much  more  for  their  money, 
better  food,  better  accommodation,  with  agreeable 
society  into  the  bargain,  and  a  relief  from  the 
harass  of  housekeeping.  The  children,  too,  find 
companionship,  to  the  great  relief  of  parents  and 
nursemaids. 

The  Hohwald  proper  is  a  tiny  village  number- 
ing a  few  hundred  souls,  situated  in  the  midst  of 
magnificent  forests  at  the  foot  of  the  famous 
Champ  de  Feu.  This  is  a  plateau  on  one  of  the 
loftiest  summits  of  the  Vosges,  and  very  curious 
from  a  geological  point  of  view.  To  explore  it 
properly  you  must  be  a  good  pedestrian.  Much, 
indeed,  of  the  finest  scenery  of  these  regions  is 
beyond  reach  of  travellers  who  cannot  walk  five 
or  six  hours  a  day. 

Any  one,  however,  may  drive  to  St.  Odile,  and 
St.  Odile  is  the  great  excursion  of  Alsace.  Who 
cares  a  straw  for  the  saint  and  her  story  now? 
But  all  tourists  must  be  grateful  to  the  Bishop  of 
Strasburg,  who  keeps  a  comfortable  little  inn  at 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  and,  beyond  the  pro- 
hibition of  meat  on  fast-days,  smoking,  noise 
and  levity  of  manner  on  all  days,  makes  you  very 
comfortable  for  next  to  nothing. 

The  fact  is,  this  noble  plateau,  commanding 
as  splendid  a  natural  panorama  as  any  in  Europe, 


IN   GUSTAVE  BORE'S   COUNTRY    61 

at  the  time  I  write  of  the  property  of  Monseigneur 
of  Strasburg,  was  once  a  famous  shrine  and  a 
convent  of  cloistered  men  and  women  vowed  to 
sanctity  and  prayer.  The  convent  was  closed  at 
the  time  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  entire 
property,  convent,  mountain  and  prospect,  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  private  possessors  till 
1853,  when  the  prelate  of  that  day  repurchased  the 
whole,  restored  the  conventual  building,  put  in 
some  lay  brethren  to  cultivate  the  soil,  and  some 
lay  sisters,  who  wear  the  garb  of  nuns,  but  have 
taken  no  vows  upon  them  except  of  piety,  to  keep 
the  little  inn  and  make  tourists  comfortable.  No 
arrangement  could  be  better,  and  I  advise  any  one 
in  want  of  pure  air,  superb  scenery,  and  complete 
quiet,  to  betake  himself  to  St.  Odile. 

Here  again  I  must  intercalate.  Since  these 
lines  were  jotted  down,  many  changes,  and  appar- 
ently none  for  the  better,  have  taken  place  here. 
Intending  tourists  must  take  both  M.  Hallays' 
volume  and  Maurice  Barres3  Au  Service 
d'Allemagne  for  recent  accounts  of  this  holiday 
resort.  The  splendid  natural  features  remain 
intact. 

The  way  from  Barr  lies  through  prosperous 
villages,  enriched  by  manufactories,  yet  abound- 
ing in  pastoral  graces.  There  are  English-like 
parks  and  fine  chateaux  of  rich  manufacturers; 


62     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

but  contrasted  with  these  nothing  like  abject 
poverty.  The  houses  of  working-folk  are  clean, 
each  with  its  flower-garden,  the  children  are  neatly 
dressed,  no  squalor  or  look  of  discontent  to  be 
seen  anywhere.  Every  hamlet  has  its  beautiful 
spire,  whilst  the  country  is  the  fairest,  richest 
conceivable;  in  the  woods  is  seen  every  variety 
of  fir  and  pine,  mingled  with  the  lighter  foliage 
of  chestnut  and  acacia,  whilst  every  orchard  has 
its  walnut  and  mulberry  trees,  not  to  speak  of 
pear  and  plum.  One  of  the  chief  manufactures 
of  these  parts  is  that  of  paints  and  colours :  there 
are  also  ribbon  and  cotton  factories.  Rich  as  is 
the  country  naturally,  its  chief  wealth  arises  from 
these  industries.  In  every  village  you  hear  the 
hum  of  machinery. 

You  may  lessen  the  distance  from  Barr  to  St. 
Odile  by  one-half  if  you  make  the  journey  on 
foot,  winding  upwards  amid  the  vine-clad  hills, 
at  every  turn  coming  upon  one  of  those  grand  old 
ruins,  as  plentiful  here  as  in  Rhineland,  and  quite 
as  romantic  and  beautiful.  The  drive  is  a  slow 
and  toilsome  ascent  of  three  hours  and  a  half. 
As  soon  as  we  quit  the  villages  and  climb  the 
mountain  road  cut  amid  the  pines,  we  are  in  a 
superb  and  solitary  scene.  No  sound  of  mill- 
wheels  or  steam-hammers  is  heard  here,  only  the 
summer  breeze  stirring  the  lofty  pine  branches, 


IN   GUSTAVE  DORfi'S   COUNTRY    63 

the  hum  of  insects,  and  the  trickling  of  mountain 
streams.  The  dark-leaved  henbane  is  in  brilliant 
yellow  flower,  and  the  purple  foxglove  in  striking 
contrast;  but  the  wealth  of  summer  flowers  is 
over. 

Who  would  choose  to  live  on  Ararat?  Yet  it 
is  something  to  reach  a  pinnacle  from  whence  you 
may  survey  more  than  one  kingdom.  The 
prospect  from  St.  Odile  is  one  to  gaze  on  for  a 
day,  and  to  make  us  dizzy  in  dreams  ever  after. 
From  the  umbrageous  terrace  in  front  of  the  con- 
vent— cool  and  breezy  on  this,  one  of  the  hottest 
'days  of  a  hot  season — we  see,  as  from  a  balloon, 
a  wonderful  bit  of  the  world  spread  out  like  a 
map  at  our  feet.  The  vast  plain  of  Alsace, 
the  valley  of  the  Rhine,  the  Swiss  mountains,  the 
Black  Forest,  Bale,  and  Strasburg — all  these  we 
dominate  from  our  airy  pinnacle  close,  at  it  seems, 
under  the  blue  vault  of  heaven.  But  though  they 
were  there,  we  did  not  see  them :  for  the  day,  as 
so  often  happens  on  such  occasions,  was  misty. 
We  had  none  the  less  a  novel  and  wonderful 
prospect.  As  we  sit  on  this  cool  terrace,  under 
the  shady  mulberry  trees,  and  look  far  beyond  the 
richly-wooded  mountain  we  have  scaled  on  our 
way,  we  gradually  make  out  some  details  of  the 
fast  panorama,  one  feature  after  another  becoming 
visible  as  stars  shining  faintly  in  a  misty  heaven. 


64     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Villages  and  little  towns  past  counting,  each  with 
its  conspicuous  spire,  break  the  monotony  of  the 
enormous  plain.  Here  and  there,  miles  away,  a 
curl  of  white  vapour  indicates  the  passage  of  some 
railway  train,  whilst  in  this  upper  stillness  sweet 
sounds  of  church  bells  reach  us  from  hamlets 
close  underneath  the  convent.  Nothing  can  be 
more  solid,  fresher,  or  more  brilliant  than  the  rich 
beech-  and  pine-woods  running  sheer  from  our 
airy  eminence  to  the  level  world  below,  nothing 
more  visionary,  slumberous,  or  dimmer  than 
that  wide  expanse  teeming,  as  we  know,  with 
busy  human  life,  yet  flat  and  motionless  as  a 
picture. 

On  clear  nights  the  electric  lights  of  the  railway 
station  at  Strasburg  are  seen  from  this  point;  but 
far  more  attractive  than  the  prospects  from  St. 
Odile  is  its  prehistoric  wall.  Before  the  wall, 
however,  came  the  dinner,  which  deserves 
mention.  It  was  Friday,  so  in  company  of  priests, 
nuns,  monks  and  divers  pious  pilgrims,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  fashionable  ladies  from  Strasburg, 
and  tourists  generally,  we  sat  down  to  a  very  fair 
menu  for  a  fast-day,  to  wit :  rice-soup,  turnips 
and  potatoes,  eggs,  perch,  macaroni-cheese, 
custard  pudding,  gruyere  cheese,  and  fair  vin 
ordinaire.  Two  shillings  was  charged  per  head, 
and  I  must  say  people  got  their  money's  worth, 


THE    PINNACLE    OF    ODILE 
Drawn  by  Georges  Conrad 


[  To  face  p.  64 


IN  GUSTAVE   BORE'S   COUNTRY    65 

for  appetites  seem  keen  in  these  parts.  The 
mother-superior,  a  kindly  old  woman,  evidently 
belonging  to  the  working  class,  bustled  about  and 
shook  hands  with  each  of  her  guests.  After 
dinner  we  were  shown  the  bedrooms,  which  are 
very  clean;  for  board  and  lodging  you  pay  six 
francs  a  day,  out  of  which,  judging  from  the 
hunger  of  the  company,  the  profit  arising  would 
be  small  except  to  clerical  hotel-keepers.  We 
must  bear  in  mind  that  nuns  work  without  pay, 
and  that  all  the  fish,  game,  dairy  and  garden  pro- 
duce the  bishop  gets  for  nothing.  However,  all 
tourists  must  be  glad  of  such  a  hostelry,  and  the 
nuns  are  very  obliging.  One  sister  made  us  some 
afternoon  tea  very  nicely  (we  always  carry  tea 
and  teapot  on  these  excursions),  and  everybody 
made  us  welcome.  We  found  a  delightful  old 
Frenchman  of  Strasburg  to  conduct  us  to  the 
Pagan  Wall,  as,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  people 
designate  this  famous  relic  of  prehistoric  times. 
Fragments  of  stone  fortifications  similarly 
constructed  have  been  found  on  other  points 
of  the  Vosges  not  far  from  the  promontory  on 
which  the  convent  stands,  but  none  to  be  com- 
pared to  this  one  in  colossal  proportions  and 
completeness. 

We  dip  deep  down  into  the  woods  on  quitting 
the  convent  gates,  then  climb  for  a  little  space 


66     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


and  come  suddenly  upon  the  edge  of  the  plateau, 
which  the  wall  was  evidently  raised  to  defend. 
Never  did  a  spot  more  easily  lend  itself  to  such 
rude  defence  by  virtue  of  natural  position, 
although  where  the  construction  begins  the  summit 
of  the  promontory  is  inaccessible  from  below.  We 
are  skirting  dizzy  precipices,  feathered  with  light 
greenery  and  brightened  with  flowers,  but  awful 
notwithstanding,  and  in  many  places  the  stones 
have  evidently  been  piled  together  rather  for  the 
sake  of  symmetry  than  from  a  sense  of  danger. 
The  points  thus  protected  were  already  impreg- 
nable. When  we  look  more  nearly  we  see  that 
however  much  Nature  may  have  aided  these 
primitive  constructors,  the  wall  is  mainly  due  to 
the  agency  of  man.  There  is  no  doubt  that  in 
many  places  the  stupendous  masses  of  con- 
glomerate have  been  hurled  to  their  places  by 
earthquake,  but  the  entire  girdle  of  stone,  of 
pyramidal  size  and  strength,  shows  much  sym- 
metrical arrangement  and  dexterity.  The  blocks 
have  been  selected  according  to  size  and  shape, 
and  in  many  places  mortised  together.  We  find 
no  trace  of  cement,  a  fact  disproving  the  hypo- 
thesis that  the  wall  may  have  been  of  Roman 
origin.  We  must  doubtless  go  much  farther  back, 
and  associate  these  primitive  builders  with  such 
relics  of  prehistoric  times  as  the  stones  of  Carnac 


IN    GUSTAVE  DORA'S   COUNTRY    67 

and  Lokmariaker.  And  not  to  seek  so  wide  for 
analogies,  do  we  not  see  here  the  handiwork  of 
the  same  rude  architects  I  have  before  alluded 
to  in  my  Vosges  travels,  who  flung  a  stone  bridge 
across  the  forest  gorge  above  Remiremont  and 
raised  in  close  proximity  the  stupendous  monolith 
of  Kirlinkin?  The  prehistoric  stone  monuments 
scattered  about  these  regions  are  as  yet  new  to 
the  English  archaeologist,  and  form  one  of  the 
most  interesting  features  of  Vosges  and  Alsatian 
travel. 

We  may  follow  these  lightly  superimposed 
blocks  of  stone  for  miles,  and  the  enceinte  has 
been  traced  round  the  entire  plateau,  which  was 
thus  defended  from  enemies  on  all  sides.  As  we 
continue  our  walk  on  the  inner  side  of  the  wall 
we  get  lovely  views  of  the  dim  violet  hills,  the 
vast  golden  plain,  and,  close  underneath,  luxuriant 
forests.  Eagles  are  flying  hither  and  thither,  and 
except  for  an  occasional  tourist  or  two,  the  scene 
is  perfectly  solitary.  An  hour's  walk  brings  us 
to  the  Menelstein,  a  vast  and  lofty  platform  of 
stone,  ascended  by  a  stair,  both  untouched  by 
the  hand  of  man.  Never  was  a  more  formidable 
redoubt  raised  by  engineering  skill.  Nature  here 
helped  her  primitive  builders  well.  From  a 
terrace  due  to  the  natural  formation  of  the  rock, 

we   obtain   another  of   those  grand  and  varied 
r  2 


68     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

panoramas  so  numerous  in  this  part  of  the  world, 
but  the  beauty  nearer  at  hand  is  more  enticing. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  freshness  and  charm  of 
our  homeward  walk.  We  are  now  no  longer 
following  the  wall,  but  free  to  enjoy  the  breezy, 
heather-scented  plateau,  and  the  broken,  romantic 
outline  of  St.  Odile,  the  Wartburg  of  Alsace,  as 
the  saint  herself  was  its  Holy  Elizabeth,  and  with 
as  romantic  a  story  for  those  with  a  taste  for  such 
legends. 

Here  and  there  on  the  remoter  wooded  peaks 
are  stately  ruins  of  feudal  castles,  whilst  all  the 
way  our  path  lies  amid  bright  foliage  of  young 
forest  trees,  chestnut  and  oak,  pine  and  acacia, 
and  the  ground  is  purple  with  heather.  Blocks 
of  the  conglomerate  used  in  the  construction  of 
the  so-called  Pagan  Wall  meet  us  at  every  turn, 
and  as  we  gaze  down  the  steep  sides  of  the 
promontory  we  can  trace  its  massive  outline.  A 
scene  not  soon  to  be  forgotten  !  The  still,  solitary 
field  of  Carnac,  with  its  avenues  of  monoliths,  is 
not  more  impressive  than  these  Cyclopean  walls, 
thrown  as  a  girdle  round  the  green  slopes  of  St. 
Odile. 

We  would  fain  have  stayed  here  some  time, 
but  much  more  still  remained  to  be  seen  and 
accomplished  in  Alsace.  Rothau,  the  district 
known  as  the  Ban  de  la  Roche,  where  Oberlin 


IN   GUSTAVE   DORA'S   COUNTRY     69 

laboured  for  sixty  years,  Thann,  Wesserling,  with 
a  sojourn  among  French  subjects  of  the  German 
Empire  at  Mulhouse — all  these  things  had  to  be 
done,  and  the  bright  summer  days  were  drawing 
to  an  end. 


IV 

FROM    BARR  TO   STRASBURG, 
MULHOUSE   AND   BELFORT 


FROM    BARR   TO    STRASBURG 

THE  opening  sentences  of  this  chapter,  written 
many  years  ago,  are  no  longer  applicable.  Were 
I  to  revisit  Alsace-Lorraine  at  the  present  time, 
I  should  only  hear  French  speech  among  intimate 
friends  and  in  private,  so  strictly  of  late  years 
has  the  law  of  lese-majeste  been,  and  is  still, 
enforced. 

Nothing  strikes  the  sojourner  in  Alsace- 
Lorraine  more  forcibly  than  the  outspokenness 
of  its  inhabitants  regarding  Prussian  rule.  Young 
and  old,  rich  and  poor,  wise  and  simple  alike 
unburden  themselves  to  their  chance-made 
English  acquaintance  with  a  candour  that  is  at 
the  same  time  amusing  and  pathetic.  For  the 
most  part  no  heed  whatever  is  paid  to  possible 
German  listeners.  At  the  ordinaries  of  country 
hotels,  by  the  shop  door,  in  the  railway  carriage, 
Alsatians  will  pour  out  their  hearts,  especially  the 
women,  who,  as  two  pretty  sisters  assured  us, 
are  not  interfered  with,  be  their  conversation  of 
the  most  treasonable  kind.  We  travelled  with 
these  two  charming  girls  from  Barr  to  Rothau, 

73 


74    IN  THE  HEART   OF  THE  VOSGES 

and  they  corroborated  what  we  had  already  heard  at 
Barr  and  other  places.  The  Prussian  inhabitants 
of  Alsace-Lorraine — for  the  most  part  Government 
officials — are  completely  shut  off  from  all  social 
intercourse  with  the  French  population,  the  latter, 
of  course,  still  forming  the  vast  majority.  Thus 
at  Barr,  a  town  consisting  of  over  six  thousand 
inhabitants,  only  a  score  or  two  are  Prussians, 
who  are  employed  in  the  railway  and  postal 
service,  the  police,  the  survey  of  forests,  etc.  The 
position  of  these  officials  is  far  from  agreeable, 
although,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  compensa- 
tion in  the  shape  of  higher  pay,  and  much  more 
material  comfort,  even  luxury,  than  are  to  be  had 
in  the  Fatherland.  Alsace-Lorraine,  especially 
by  comparison  with  Prussia,  may  be  called  a  land 
of  Goshen,  overflowing  with  milk  and  honey.  The 
vine  ripens  on  these  warm  hill-sides  and  rocky 
terraces,  the  plain  produces  abundant  variety  of 
fruit  and  vegetables,  the  streams  abound  with  trout 
and  the  forests  with  game.  No  wonder,  therefore, 
that  whilst  thousands  of  patriotic  Alsatians  have 
already  quitted  the  country,  thousands  of  Prus- 
sians are  ready  to  fill  their  places.  But  the 
Alsatian  exodus  is  far  from  finished.  At  first,  as 
was  only  natural,  the  inhabitants  could  not  realize 
the  annexation.  They  refused  to  believe  that  the 
Prussian  occupation  was  final,  so,  for  the  most 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG      75 

part,  stayed  on,  hoping  against  hope.  The  time 
of  illusion  is  past.  French  parents  of  children 
born  since  the  war  had  to  decide  whether  their 
sons  are  to  become  Prussian  or  French  citizens. 
After  the  age  of  sixteen  a  lad's  fate  is  no  longer 
in  their  hands ;  he  must  don  the  uniform  so  odious 
in  French  eyes,  and  renounce  the  cherished  patrie 
and  tricolor  for  ever. 

The  enforced  military  service,  necessitated, 
perhaps,  by  the  new  order  of  things,  is  the 
bitterest  drop  in  the  cup  of  the  Alsatians.  Only 
the  poorest,  and  those  who  are  too  much  ham- 
pered by  circumstances  to  evade  it,  resign  them- 
selves to  the  enrolment  of  their  sons  in  the 
German  army.  For  this  reason  well-to-do 
parents,  and  even  many  in  the  humbler  ranks  of 
life,  are  quitting  the  country  in  much  larger 
numbers  than  is  taken  account  of,  whilst  all  who 
can  possibly  afford  it  send  their  young  sons  across 
the  frontier  for  the  purpose  of  giving  them  a 
French  education.  The  prohibition  of  French  in 
the  public  schools  and  colleges  is  another  grievous 
condition  of  annexation.  Alsatians  of  all  ranks 
are  therefore  under  the  necessity  of  providing 
private  masters  for  their  children,  unless  they 
would  let  them  grow  up  in  ignorance  of  their 
mother  tongue.  And  here  a  word  of  explanation 
may  be  necessary.  Let  no  strangers  in  Alsace 


76      IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

take  it  for  granted  that  because  a  great  part  of 
the  rural  population  speak  a  -patois  made  up  of 
bad  German  and  equally  bad  French,  they  are 
any  more  German  at  heart  for  all  that.  Some  of 
the  most  patriotic  French  inhabitants  of  Alsace 
can  only  express  themselves  in  this  dialect,  a  fact 
that  should  not  surprise  us,  seeing  the  amalgama- 
tion of  races  that  has  been  going  on  for  many 
generations. 

Physically  speaking,  so  far  the  result  has  been 
satisfactory.  In  Alsace-Lorraine  no  one  can 
help  being  struck  with  the  fine  appearance  of 
the  people.  The  men  are  tall,  handsome,  and 
well  made,  the  women  graceful  and  often  exceed- 
ingly lovely,  French  piquancy  and  symmetrical 
proportions  combined  with  Teutonic  fairness  of 
complexion,  blonde  hair,  and  blue  eyes. 

I  will  now  continue  my  journey  from  Barr  to 
Strasburg  by  way  of  the  Ban  de  la  Roche, 
Oberlin's  country.  A  railway  connects  Barr  with 
Rothau,  a  very  pleasant  halting-place  in  the  midst 
of  sweet  pastoral  scenery.  It  is  another  of  those 
resorts  in  Alsace  whither  holiday  folks  flock  from 
Strasburg  and  other  towns  during  the  long 
vacation,  in  quest  of  health,  recreation  and 
society. 

Rothau  is  a  very  prosperous  little  town,  with 
large  factories,  handsome  chateaux  of  mill- 


FROM  BARR  TO  STRASBURG      77 

owners,  and  trim  little  cottages,  having  flowers  in 
all  the  windows  and  a  trellised  vine  in  every 
garden.  Pomegranates  and  oleanders  are  in  full 
bloom  here  and  there,  and  the  general  aspect  is 
bright  and  cheerful.  At  Rothau  are  several  blan- 
chisseries  or  laundries,  on  a  large  scale,  employ- 
ing many  hands,  besides  dye-works  and  saw-mills. 
Through  the  town  runs  the  little  river  Bruche, 
and  the  whole  district,  known  as  the  Ban  de  la 
Roche,  a  hundred  years  ago  one  of  the  dreariest 
regions  in  France,  is  now  all  smiling  fertility.  The 
principal  building  is  its  handsome  Protestant 
church — for  here  we  are  among  Protestants, 
although  of  a  less  zealous  temper  than  their  fore- 
fathers, the  fervid  Anabaptists.  I  attended 
morning  service,  and  although  an  eloquent 
preacher  from  Paris  officiated,  the  audience  was 
small,  and  the  general  impression  that  of  coldness 
and  want  of  animation. 

From  the  sweet,  fragrant  valley  of  Rothau  a 
road  winds  amid  green  hills  and  by  the  tumbling 
river  to  the  little  old-world  village  of  Foudai, 
where  Oberlin  lies  buried.  The  tiny  church  and 
shady  churchyard  lie  above  the  village,  and  a 
more  out-of-the-way  spot  than  Foudai  itself  can 
hardly  be  imagined.  Yet  many  a  pious  pilgrim 
finds  it  out  and  comes  hither  to  pay  a  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  "  Papa  Oberlin,"  as  he  was  art- 


78     IN   THE    HEART    OF   THE   VOSGES 

lessly  called  by  the  country  folk.  This  is  the 
inscription  at  the  head  of  the  plain  stone  slab 
marking  his  resting-place;  and  very  suggestive 
it  is  of  the  relation  between  the  pastor  and  his 
flock.  Oberlin's  career  of  sixty  years  among 
the  primitive  people  of  the  Ban  de  la  Roche  was 
rather  that  of  a  missionary  among  an  uncivilized 
race  than  of  a  country  priest  among  his 
parishioners.  How  he  toiled,  and  how  he  in- 
duced others  to  toil,  in  order  to  raise  the  material 
as  well  as  moral  and  spiritual  conditions  of  his 
charges,  is  pretty  well  known.  His  story  reads  like 
the  German  narrative,  Des  Goldmachers  Dorf. 
Nor  does  it  require  any  lively  fancy  to  picture 
what  this  region  must  have  been  like  before 
Oberlin  and  his  fellow-workers  made  the  wilder- 
ness to  blossom  as  the  rose.  The  soil  is  rocky 
and  barren,  the  hill-sides  whitened  with  mountain 
streams,  the  more  fertile  spots  isolated  and 
difficult  of  access.  An  elaborate  system  of  irriga- 
tion has  now  clothed  the  valleys  with  rich  pastures, 
the  river  turns  a  dozen  wheels,  and  every  available 
inch  of  soil  has  been  turned  to  account.  The 
cottages  with  orchards  and  flower-gardens  are  trim 
and  comfortable.  The  place  in  verity  is  a  verit- 
able little  Arcadia.  No  less  so  is  Waldersbach, 
which  was  Oberlin's  home.  The  little  river  wind- 
ing amid  hayfields  and  fruit-trees  leads  us  thither 


FROM   BARR  TO   STRASBURG      79 

from  Foudai  in  half-an-hour.  It  is  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  a  fete  day.  Young  and  old  in  Sunday 
garb  are  keeping  holiday,  the  lads  and  lasses  waltz- 
ing, the  children  enjoying  swings  and  peep-shows. 
No  acerbity  has  lingered  among  these  descend- 
ants of  the  austere  parishioners  of  Oberlin.  Here, 
as  at  Foudai,  the  entire  population  is  Protestant. 
The  church  and  parsonage  lie  at  the  back  of  the 
village,  and  we  were  warmly  welcomed  by  the 
pastor  and  his  wife,  a  great-great-granddaughter 
of  Oberlin.  Their  six  pretty  children  were 
playing  in  the  garden  with  two  young  girls  in  the 
costume  of  Alsace,  forming  a  pleasant  domestic 
picture.  Our  hosts  showed  us  many  relics  of 
Oberlin,  the  handsome  cabinets  and  presses  of 
carved  oak,  in  which  were  stored  the  family  ward- 
robe and  other  treasures,  and  in  the  study  the 
table  on  which  he  habitually  wrote.  This  is  a 
charming  upper  room  with  wide  views  over  the 
green  hills  and  sunny,  peaceful  valley. 

We  were  offered  hospitality  for  days,  nay, 
weeks,  if  we  chose  to  stay,  and  even  the  use  of 
Oberlin's  study  to  sit  and  write  in !  A  summer 
might  be  pleasantly  spent  here,  with  quiet  morn- 
ings in  this  cheerful  chamber,  full  of  pious 
memories,  and  in  the  afternoon  long  rambles  with 
the  children  over  the  peaceful  hills.  From 
Foudai,  too,  you  may  climb  the  wild  rocky  plateau 


80     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

known  as  the  Champ  de  Feu — no  spot  in  the 
Vosges  chain  is  more  interesting  from  a  geological 
point  of  view. 

After  much  pleasant  talk  we  took  leave  of  our 
kind  hosts,  not  going  away,  however,  without 
visiting  the  church.  A  tablet  with  medallion 
portrait  of  Oberlin  bears  the  touching  inscription 
that  for  fifty-nine  years  he  was  "  the  father  of  this 
parish."  Then  we  drove  back  as  we  had  come, 
stopping  at  Foudai  to  rest  the  horse  and  drink 
tea.  We  were  served  in  a  cool  little  parlour  open- 
ing on  to  a  garden,  and  so  tempting  looked  the 
tiny  inn  that  we  regretted  we  could  not  stay  there 
a  week.  A  pleasant  pastoral  country  rather  than 
romantic  or  picturesque  is  the  Ban  de  la  Roche, 
but  close  at  hand  is  the  lofty  Donon,  which  may 
be  climbed  from  Rothau  or  Foudai,  and  there  are 
many  other  excursions  within  reach. 

Here,  for  the  present,  the  romance  of  Alsace 
travel  ends,  and  all  is  prose  of  a  somewhat  painful 
kind.  The  first  object  that  attracted  our  attention 
on  reaching  Strasburg  was  the  new  railway  station, 
of  which  we  had  already  heard  so  much.  This 
handsome  structure,  erected  by  the  German 
Government  at  an  enormous  cost,  had  only  been 
recently  opened,  and  so  great  was  the  soreness 
of  feeling  excited  by  certain  allegorical  bas-reliefs 
decorating  the  fagade  that  for  many  days  after 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG      81 

the  opening  of  the  station  police-officers  in  plain 
clothes  carefully  watched  the  crowd  of  spectators, 
carrying  off  the  more  seditious  to  prison.  To  say 
the  least  of  it,  these  mural  decorations  are  not  in 
the  best  of  taste,  and  at  any  rate  it  would  have 
been  better  to  have  withheld  them  for  a  time. 
The  two  small  bas-reliefs  in  question  bear  respec- 
tively the  inscription,  "  Im  alien,  und  im  neuen 
Reich"  ("In  the  old  and  new  Empire"), 
improved  by  a  stander-by,  to  the  great  relish  of 
others,  thus,  " Im  alien,  reich,  im  neuen,  arm" 
("  In  the  old,  rich,  in  the  new,  poor ").  They 
give  a  somewhat  ideal  representation  of  the 
surrender  of  Strasburg  to  the  German  Emperor. 
But  the  bombardment  of  their  city,  the  destruction 
of  public  monuments  and  the  loss  of  life  and 
property  thereby  occasioned,  were  as  yet  fresh  in 
the  memories  of  the  inhabitants,  and  they  needed 
no  such  reminder  of  the  new  state  of  things.  Their 
better  feelings  towards  Germany  had  been  bom- 
barded out  of  them,  as  an  Alsacienne  wittily 
observed  to  the  Duchess  of  Baden  after  the 
surrender.  The  duchess,  daughter  to  the  Em- 
peror William,  made  the  round  of  the  hospitals, 
and  not  a  single  Alsatian  soldier  but  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall,  whereupon  she  expressed  her 
astonishment  at  not  finding  a  better  sentiment. 
Nor  can  the  lover  of  art  help  drawing  a  painful 


82     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

contrast  between  the  Strasburg  of  the  old  and  the 
new  regime.  There  was  very  little  to  see  at  Stras- 
burg except  the  cathedral  at  this  time.  The 
Library,  with  its  300,000  volumes  and  1,500  manu- 
scripts— the  priceless  Hortus  Deliciarium  of  the 
twelfth  century,  richly  illuminated  and  ornamented 
with  miniatures  invaluable  to  the  student  of  men 
and  manners  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  missal  of 
Louis  XII., bearing  his  arms,  \h&RecueildePrieres 
of  the  eighth  century — all  these  had  been  com- 
pletely destroyed  by  the  ruthless  Prussian  bom- 
bardment. The  Museum,  rich  in  chefs  'd'ceuvre 
of  the  French  school,  both  of  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing, the  handsome  Protestant  church,  the  theatre, 
the  Palais  de  Justice,  all  shared  the  same  fate,  not 
to  speak  of  buildings  of  lesser  importance,  in- 
cluding four  hundred  private  dwellings,  and  of 
the  fifteen  hundred  civilians,  men,  women  and 
children,  killed  and  wounded  by  the  shells.  The 
fine  church  of  St.  Thomas  suffered  greatly.  Nor 
was  the  cathedral  spared,  and  it  would  doubtless 
have  perished  altogether,  too,  but  for  the  en- 
forced surrender  of  the  heroic  city.  On  my 
second  visit  ten  years  later  I  found  immense 
changes,  new  German  architecture  to  be  seen 
everywhere. 

Strasburg  is  said   to   contain  a  much  larger 
German  element  than  any  other  city  of  Alsace- 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG      88 

Lorraine,  but  the  most  casual  observer  soon  finds 
out  how  it  stands  with  the  bulk  of  the  people. 
The  first  thing  that  attracted  our  notice  in  a  shop 
window  was  a  coloured  illustration  representing 
the  funeral  procession  of  Gambetta,  as  it  wound 
slowly  past  the  veiled  statue  of  Strasburg  on  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  These  displays  of  patriotic 
feeling  are  forbidden,  but  they  come  to  the  fore 
all  the  same.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  clinging 
to  the  old  country  is  pathetically — sometimes 
comically — apparent.  A  rough  peasant  girl, 
employed  as  chambermaid  in  the  hotel  at 
which  we  stayed,  amused  me  not  a  little  by  her 
tirades  against  the  Prussians,  spoken  in  a  lan- 
guage that  was  neither  German  nor  French,  but 
a  mixture  of  both — the  delectable  tongue  of 
Alsace ! 

Strasburg  is  now  a  vast  camp,  with  that  per- 
petual noisy  military  parade  so  wearisome  in 
Berlin  and  other  German  cities,  and,  as  I  have 
said,  there  was  very  little  to  see.  It  was  a 
relief  to  get  to  Mulhouse,  the  comparatively  quiet 
and  thoroughly  French  city  of  Mulhouse,  in  spite 
of  all  attempts  to  make  it  German.  But  for  the 
imperial  eagle  placed  over  public  offices  and  the 
sprinkling  of  Prussian  helmets  and  Prussian 
physiognomies,  we  could  hardly  suppose  our- 
selves outside  the  French  border.  The  shops  are 

G2 


84    IN  THE  HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

French.  French  is  the  language  of  the  better 
classes,  and  French  and  Jews  make  up  the  bulk 
of  the  population.  The  Jews  from  time  imme- 
morial have  swarmed  in  Alsace,  where,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  they  seemed  to  be  little  liked. 

This  thoroughly  French  appearance  of  Mulhouse, 
to  be  accounted  for,  moreover,  by  an  intensely 
patriotic  clinging  to  the  mother  country,  naturally 
occasions  great  vexation  to  the  German  author- 
ities. It  is,  perhaps,  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that 
undignified  provocations  and  reprisals  should  be 
the  consequence.  Thus  the  law  forbids  the  putting 
up  of  French  signboards  or  names  over  shop 
doors  in  any  but  the  German  language.  This  is 
evaded  by  withholding  all  else  except  the  surname 
of  the  individual,  which  is  of  course  the  same  in 
both  languages. 

One  instance  more  I  give  of  the  small  annoy- 
ances to  which  the  French  residents  of  Mulhouse 
are  subject,  a  trifling  one,  yet  sufficient  to  irritate. 
Eight  months  after  the  annexation,  orders  were 
sent  round  to  the  pastors  and  clergy  generally  to 
offer  up  prayers  for  the  Emperor  William  every 
Sunday.  The  order  was  obeyed,  for  refusal 
would  have  been  assuredly  followed  by  dismissal, 
but  the  prayer  is  ungraciously  performed.  The 
French  pastors  invoke  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on 
" VEm-pereur  qui  nous  gouverne"  The  pastors 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG      85 

who  perform  the  service  in  German,  pray  not 
for  "our  Emperor/'  as  is  the  apparently  loyal 
fashion  in  the  Fatherland,  but  for  "the 
Emperor."  These  things  are  trifling  grievances, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Prussians  have  theirs 
also.  Not  even  the  officials  of  highest  rank  are 
received  into  any  kind  of  society  whatever. 
Mulhouse  possesses  a  charming  zoological 
garden,  free  to  subscribers  only,  who  have  to  be 
balloted  for.  Twenty  years  after  the  annexation 
not  a  single  Prussian  has  ever  been  able  to  obtain 
access  to  this  garden. 

Even  the  very  poorest  contrive  to  show  their 
intense  patriotism.  It  is  the  rule  of  the  German 
government  to  give  twenty-five  marks  to  any  poor 
woman  giving  birth  to  twins.  The  wife  of  a 
French  workman  during  my  sojourn  at  Mulhouse 
had  three  sons  at  a  birth,  but  though  in  very  poor 
circumstances,  refused  to  claim  the  donation. 
"My  sons  shall  never  be  Prussian/1  she  said, 
"and  that  gift  would  make  them  so." 

The  real  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  the  annexed 
Alsatians  is,  however,  as  I  have  before  pointed 
out,  military  service,  and  the  enforced  German 
education.  All  who  have  read  Alphonse  Daudet's 
charming  little  story,  La  derniere  le^on  de 
'Franfais,  will  be  able  to  realize  the  painfulness 
of  the  truth,  somewhat  rudely  brought  home  to 


86    IN  THE   HEART  OF  THE   VOSGES 


French  parents.  Their  children  must  henceforth 
receive  a  German  education,  or  none  at  all,  for 
this  is  what  the  law  amounts  to  in  the  great 
majority  of  cases.  Rich  people,  of  course,  and 
those  who  are  only  well-to-do,  can  send  their  sons 
to  the  Lycee,  opened  at  Belfort  since  the  annexa- 
tion, but  the  rest  have  to  submit,  or,  by  dint  of 
great  sacrifice,  obtain  private  French  teaching. 
And,  whilst  even  Alsatians  are  quite  ready  to 
render  justice  to  the  forbearance  and  tact  often 
shown  by  officials,  an  inquisitorial  and  prying 
system  is  pursued,  as  vexatious  to  the  patriotic 
as  enforced  vaccination  to  the  Peculiar  People  or 
school  attendance  to  the  poor.  One  lady  was 
visited  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  the 
functionary  charged  with  the  unpleasant  mission 
of  finding  out  where  her  boy  was  educated.  "  Tell 
those  who  sent  you,"  said  the  indignant  mother, 
"that  my  son  shall  never  belong  to  you.  We 
will  give  up  our  home,  our  prospects,  everything ; 
but  our  children  shall  never  be  Prussians."  True 
enough,  the  family  have  since  emigrated.  No 
one  who  has  not  stayed  in  Alsace  among  Alsatians 
can  realize  the  intense  clinging  to  France  among 
the  people,  nor  the  sacrifices  made  to  retain  their 
nationality.  And  it  is  well  the  true  state  of  feel- 
ing throughout  the  annexed  territory  should  be 
known  outside  its  limits.  With  a  considerable 


[To  face  p.  86 


ETTENHEIM 


FROM  BARR  TO  STRASBURG      87 


knowledge  of  French  life  and  character,  I  confess 
I  went  to  Mulhouse  little  prepared  to  find  there 
a  ferment  of  feeling  which  years  have  not  sufficed 
to  calm  down. 

"Nous  ne  sommes  pas  heureux  a  Mulhouse? 
were  almost  the  first  words  addressed  to  me  by 
that  veteran  patriot  and  true  philanthropist,  Jean 
Dollfus. 

And  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  M.  Dollfus, 
as  well  as  other  representatives  of  the  French  sub- 
jects of  Prussia  in  the  Reichstag,  had  protested 
against  the  annexation  of  Alsace  in  vain.  They 
pointed  out  the  heavy  cost  to  the  German  empire 
of  these  provinces,  in  consequence  of  the  vast 
military  force  required  to  maintain  them,  the  un- 
dying bitterness  aroused,  the  moral,  intellectual, 
and  material  interests  at  stake.  I  use  the  word 
intellectual  advisedly,  for,  amongst  other  instances 
in  point,  I  was  assured  that  the  book  trade  in  Mul- 
house had  greatly  declined  since  the  annexation. 
The  student  class  has  diminished,  many  reading 
people  have  gone,  and  those  who  remain  feel  too 
uncertain  about  the  future  to  accumulate  libraries. 
Moreover,  the  ordeal  that  all  have  gone  through 
has  depressed  intellectual  as  well  as  social  life. 
Mulhouse  has  been  too  much  saddened  to  recover 
herself  as  yet,  although  eminently  a  literary 
place,  and  a  sociable  one  in  the  old  happy  French 


88    IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE   VOSGES 

days.  The  balls,  soirees  and  reunions,  that 
formerly  made  Mulhouse  one  of  the  friendliest  as 
well  as  the  busiest  towns  in  the  world,  have  almost 
ceased.  People  take  their  pleasures  very  soberly. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  write  of  Mulhouse  with- 
out consecrating  a  page  or  two  to  M.  Jean 
Dollfus,  a  name  already  familiar  to  some  English 
readers.  The  career  of  such  a  man  forms  part  of 
contemporary  history,  and  for  sixty  years  the 
great  cotton-printer  of  Mulhouse,  the  indefatig- 
able philanthropist — the  fellow-worker  with 
Cobden,  Arles-Dufour,  and  others  in  the  cause 
of  Free  Trade — and  the  ardent  patriot,  had  been 
before  the  world. 

The  year  before  my  visit  was  celebrated,  with  a 
splendour  that  would  be  ridiculed  in  a  novel,  the 
diamond  wedding  of  the  head  of  the  numerous 
house  of  Dollfus,  the  silver  and  the  golden  having 
been  already  kept  in  due  form. 

Mulhouse  might  well  be  proud  of  such  a  fete, 
for  it  was  unique,  and  the  first  gala-day  since  the 
annexation.  When  M.  Dollfus  looked  out  of 
his  window  in  the  morning,  he  found  the  familiar 
street  transformed  as  if  by  magic  into  a  bright 
green  avenue  abundantly  adorned  with  flowers. 
The  change  had  been  effected  in  the  night  by 
means  of  young  fir-trees  transplanted  from  the 
forest.  The  day  was  kept  as  a  general  holiday. 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG      89 

From  an  early  hour  the  improvised  avenue  was 
thronged  with  visitors  of  all  ranks  bearing  cards, 
letters  of  congratulation  or  flowers.  The  great 
Dollfus  works  were  closed,  and  the  five  thousand 
workmen  with  their  wives,  children  and  super- 
annuated parents,  were  not  only  feasted  but  en- 
riched. After  the  banquet  every  man,  woman  and 
child  received  a  present  in  money,  the  oldest  and 
those  who  had  remained  longest  in  the  employ 
of  M.  Dollfus  being  presented  with  forty  francs. 
But  the  crowning  sight  of  the  day  was  the  board 
spread  for  the  Dollfus  family  and  the  gathering 
of  the  clan,  as  it  may  indeed  be  called.  There 
was  the  head  of  the  house,  firm  as  a  rock  still,  in 
spite  of  his  eighty-two  years;  beside  him  the 
partner  of  sixty  of  those  years,  his  devoted  wife ; 
next  according  to  age,  their  numerous  sons  and 
daughters,  sons-in-law  and  daughters-in-law; 
duly  following  came  the  grandsons  and  grand- 
daughters, then  the  great-grandsons  and  great- 
granddaughters,  and  lastly,  the  babies  of  their 
fifth  generation,  all  accompanied  by  their  nurses 
in  the  picturesque  costume  of  Alsace  and 
Lorraine.  This  patriarchal  assemblage  numbered 
between  one  and  two  hundred  guests.  On  the 
table  were  represented,  in  the  artistic  confec- 
tionery for  which  Mulhouse  is  famous,  some  of 
the  leading  events  of  M.  Dollfus's  busy  life. 


90    IN  THE   HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 


Here  in  sugar  was  a  model  of  the  achievement 
which  will  ever  "do  honour  to  the  name  of  Jean 
Dollfus,  namely,  the  cites  ouvrieres,  and  what 
was  no  less  a  triumph  of  the  confectioner's  skill, 
a  group  representing  the  romantic  ride  of  M.  and 
Mme.  Dollfus  on  camels  towards  the  Algerian 
Sahara  when  visiting  the  African  colony  some 
twenty  years  before. 

This  patriarchal  festival  is  said  to  have  cost 
M.  Dollfus  half  a  million  of  francs,  a  bagatelle 
in  a  career  devoted  to  giving !  The  bare  con- 
ception of  what  this  good  man  has  bestowed  takes 
one's  breath  away  !  Not  that  he  was  alone ;  never 
was  a  city  more  prolific  of  generous  men  than 
Mulhouse,  but  Jean  Dollfus,  "  Le  Pere  Jean,"  as 
he  is  called,  stood  at  the  head.  He  received 
with  one  hand  to  bestow  with  the  other,  and  not 
only  on  behalf  of  the  national,  intellectual  and 
spiritual  wants  of  his  own  workmen  and  his  own 
community — the  Dollfus  family  are  Protestant 
— but  indiscriminately  benefiting  Protestant, 
Catholic,  Jew ;  founding  schools,  hospitals, 
libraries,  refuges,  churches,  for  all. 

We  see  at  a  glance  after  what  fashion  the  great 
manufacturers  set  to  work  here  to  solve  the 
problem  before  them.  The  life  of  ease  and  the 
life  of  toil  are  seen  side  by  side,  and  all  the 
brighter  influences  of  the  one  brought  to  bear  on 


FROM  BARR  TO  STRASBURG      91 

the  other.  The  tall  factory  chimneys  are  un- 
sightly here  as  elsewhere,  and  nothing  can  be 
uglier  than  the  steam  tramways,  noisily  running 
through  the  streets.  But  close  to  the  factories 
and  workshops  are  the  cheerful  villas  and  gardens 
of  their  owners,  whilst  near  at  hand  the  work- 
men's 'dwellings  offer  an  exterior  equally 
attractive.  These  cites  ouvrieres  form  indeed 
a  suburb  in  themselves,  and  a  very  pleasant 
suburb  too.  Many  middle-class  families  in 
England  might  be  glad  to  own  such  a  home,  a 
semi-detached  cottage  or  villa  standing  in  a  pretty 
garden  with  flowers  and  trees  and  plots  of  turf. 
Some  of  the  cottages  are  models  of  trimness 
and  taste,  others  of  course  are  less  well  kept,  a 
few  have  a  neglected  appearance.  The  general 
aspect,  however,  is  one  of  thrift  and  prosperity, 
and  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  each  'dwelling 
and  plot  of  ground  are  the  property  of  the  owner, 
gradually  acquired  by  him  out  of  his  earnings, 
thanks  to  the  initiative  of  M.  Dollfus  and  his 
fellow-workers.  "  It  is  by  such  means  as  these  that 
we  have  combated  Socialism,"  said  M.  Dollfus 
to  me;  and  the  gradual  transformation  of  the 
workman  into  an  owner  of  property,  is  but  one 
of  the  numerous  efforts  made  at  Mulhouse  to 
lighten,  in  so  far  as  is  practicable,  the  burden  of 
toil. 


92     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


These  pleasant  avenues  are  very  animated  on 
Sundays,  especially  when  a  universal  christening 
of  babies  is  going  on.  The  workmen  at  Mulhouse 
are  paid  once  a  fortnight,  in  some  cases  monthly, 
and  it  is  usually  after  pay-day  that  such  celebra- 
tions occur.  We  saw  one  Sunday  afternoon  quite 
a  procession  of  carriages  returning  from  the 
church  to  the  cite  ouvriere,  for  upon  these  occa- 
sions nobody  goes  on  foot,  There  were  certainly 
a  dozen  christening  parties,  all  well  dressed,  and 
the  babies  in  the  finest  white  muslin  and 
embroidery.  A  very  large  proportion  of  the 
artisans  here  are  Catholics,  and  as  one  instance 
among  others  of  the  liberality  prevailing  here,  I 
mention  that  one  of  the  latest  donations  of 
M.  Dollfus  is  the  piece  of  ground,  close  to  the 
'cite  ouvriere,  on  which  now  stands  the  new,  florid 
Catholic  church. 

There  are  free  libraries  for  all,  and  a  very 
handsome  museum  has  been  opened  within  the 
last  few  years,  containing  some  fine  modern 
French  pictures,  all  gifts  of  the  Dollfuses, 
Engels,  and  Kochlins,  to  their  native  town.  The 
museum,  like  everything  else  at  Mulhouse,  is  as 
French  as  French  can  be,  no  German  element 
visible  anywhere.  Conspicuous  among  the  pic- 
tures are  portraits  of  Thiers  and  Gambetta,  and 
a  fine  subject  of  De  Neuville,  representing  one 


FROM  BARR  TO   STRASBURG       93 


of  those  desperate  battle-scenes  of  1870-71  that 
still  have  such  a  painful  hold  on  the  minds  of 
French  people.  It  was  withheld  for  some  time, 
and  had  only  been  recently  exhibited.  The  bom- 
bardment of  Strasburg  is  also  a  popular  subject 
in  Mulhouse. 

I  have  mentioned  the  flower-gardens  of  the 
city,  but  the  real  pleasure-ground  of  both  rich 
and  poor  lies  outside  the  suburbs,  and  a  charm- 
ing one  it  is,  and  full  of  animation  on  Sundays. 
This  is  the  Tannenwald,  a  fine  bit  of  forest  on 
high  ground  above  the  vineyards  and  suburban 
gardens  of  the  richer  citizens.  A  garden  is  a 
necessity  of  existence  here,  and  all  who  are  with- 
out one  in  the  town  hire  or  purchase  a  plot  of 
suburban  ground.  Here  is  also  the  beautiful 
subscription  garden  I  have  before  alluded  to, 
with  fine  views  over  the  Rhine  valley  and  the 
Black  Forest. 

Nor  is  Mulhouse  without  its  excursions.  Colmar 
and  the  romantic  site  of  Notre  Dame  des  Trois 
Epis  may  be  visited  in  a  day.  Then  there  is 
Thann,  with  its  perfect  Gothic  church,  a  veritable 
cathedral  in  miniature,  and  the  charming,  pros- 
perous valley  of  Wesserling.  From  Thann  the 
ascent  of  the  Ballon  d' Alsace  may  be  made,  but 
the  place  itself  must  on  no  account  be  missed.  No 
more  exquisite  church  in  the  region,  and  most 


94     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

beautifully  is  it  placed  amid  sloping  green  hills ! 
It  may  be  said  to  consist  of  nave  and  apse  only. 
There  are  but  two  lateral  chapels,  evidently  of  a 
later  period  than  the  rest  of  the  building.  The 
interior  is  of  great  beauty,  and  no  less  so  the 
facade  and  side  porch,  both  very  richly  decor- 
ated. One's  first  feeling  is  of  amazement  to 
find  such  a  church  in  such  a  place;  but  this 
Hingy,  sleepy  little  town  was  once  of  some  import- 
ance and  still  does  a  good  deal  of  trade.  There 
is  a  very  large  Jewish  community  here,  as  in  many 
other  towns  of  Alsace.  Whether  they  deserve 
their  unpopularity  is  a  painful  question  not 
lightly  to  be  taken  up. 

Leisurely  travellers  bound  homeward  from 
Mulhouse  will  do  well  to  diverge  from  the  direct 
Paris  line  and  join  it  at  Dijon,  by  way  of  Belfort 
— the  heroic  city  of  Belfort,  with  its  colossal  lion, 
hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock — the  little  Protestant 
town  of  Montbeliard,  and  Besangon.  Belfort  is 
well  worth  seeing,  and  the  '  Territoire  de 
Belfort"  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  new 
'department,  formed  from  that  remnant  of  the 
Haut  Rhin  saved  to  France  after  the  war  of 
1870-71.  The  "  Territoire  de  Belfort"  comprises 
upwards  of  sixty  thousand  hectares,  and  a  popula- 
tion, chiefly  industrial,  of  nearly  seventy  thousand 
inhabitants,  spread  over  many  communes  and 


FROM  BARR  TO  STRASBURG      95 

hamlets.  There  is  a  picturesque  and  romantic 
bit  of  country  between  Montbeliard  and 
Besangon,  well  worth  seeing,  if  only  from  the 
railway  windows.  But  the  tourist  who  wants  to 
make  no  friendly  calls  on  the  way,  whose  chief 
aim  is  to  get  over  the  ground  quickly,  must  avoid 
the  'detour  by  all  means,  as  the  trains  are  slow 
and  the  stoppages  many. 


>./f'.»;  V,     Vi 


fil 

v.v^. s  ;-5         .//x-  i^  i/ 


/ / 1 


\_Tofacep.  97 
SKETCH    BY    GUSTAVE    DORE,    ^ETAT    EIGHT   YEARS 


V 

THE   'MARVELLOUS   BOY'    OF 
ALSACE 


THE   '  MARVELLOUS   BOY J   OF 
ALSACE 

I 

IT  is  especially  at  Strasburg  that  travellers  are 
reminded  of  another  "marvellous  boy,"  who,  if 
he  did  not  "  perish  in  his  pride,"  certainly  short- 
ened his  days  by  overreaching  ambition  and  the 
brooding  bitterness  waiting  upon  shattered  hopes. 

Gustave  Dore  was  born  and  reared  under  the 
shadow  of  Strasburg  Cathedral.  The  majestic 
spire,  a  world  in  itself,  became  indeed  a  world  to 
this  imaginative  prodigy.  He  may  be  said  to 
have  learned  the  minster  of  minsters  by  heart, 
as  before  him  Victor  Hugo  had  familiarized 
himself  with  Notre  Dame.  The  unbreeched 
artist  of  four  summers  never  tired  of  scrutinizing 
the  statues,  monsters,  gargoyles  and  other  outer 
ornamentations,  while  the  story  of  the  pious 
architect  Erwin  and  of  his  inspirer,  Sabine,  was 
equally  'dear.  Never  did  genius  more  clearly 
exhibit  the  influence  of  early  environment.  True 
child  of  Alsace,  he  revelled  in  local  folk-lore  and 
legend.  The  eerie  and  the  fantastic  had  the 

H2  99 


100    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

same  fascination  for  him  as  sacred  story,  and 
the  lives  of  the  saints,  gnomes,  elves,  were- 
wolves and  sorcerers  bewitched  no  less  than 
martyrs,  miracle-workers  and  angels. 

His  play-hours  would  be  spent  within  the 
precincts  of  the  cathedral,  whilst  the  long  winter 
evenings  were  beguiled  "with  fairy-tales  and 
fables,  his  mother  and  nurse  reading  or  reciting 
these,  their  little  listener  being  always  busy  with 
pen  or  pencil.  Something  much  more  than  mere 
precocity  is  shown  in  these  almost  infantine 
sketches.  Exorbitant  fancy  is  here  much  less 
striking  than  sureness  of  touch,  outlined  figures 
drawn  between  the  age  of  five  and  ten  displaying 
remarkable  precision  and  point,  each  line  of  the 
silhouette  telling.  At  six  he  celebrated  his  first 
school  prize  with  an  illustrated  letter,  two  portraits 
and  a  mannikin  surmounting  the  text.1  His 
groups  of  peasants  and  portraits,  made  three  or 
four  years  later,  possess  almost  a  Rembrandt 
strength,  unfortunately  passion  for  the  grotesque 
and  the  fanciful  often  lending  a  touch  of 
caricature.  Downright  ugliness  must  have  had 
an  especial  charm  for  the  future  illustrator  of  the 
Inferno,  his  unconscious  models  sketched  by  the 
way  being  uncomely  as  the  immortal  Pickwick 

1  See  his  life  by  Blanch  Roosevelt,  Sampson  Low  &  Co. 
1885  ;  also  the  French  translation  of  the  same,  1886. 


:  :  :• : :  •.  ; 
•..• :  •: :  v 


\_Tofacep.  roi 
SKETCH    BY    GUSTAVE    DORE,    yETAT    EIGHT   YEARS 


MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     101 


and  his  fellows  of  Phiz.  A  devotee  of  Gothic 
art,  he  reproduced  the  mediaeval  monstrosities 
adorning  cornice  and  pinnacle  in  human  types. 
Equally  devoted  to  nature  out  of  doors,  the  same 
taste  predominated.  What  he  loved  and  sought 
was  ever  the  savage,  the  legend-haunted,  the 
ghoulish,  seats  and  ambuscades  of  kelpie,  hob- 
goblin, brownie  and  their  kind. 

From  the  nursery  upwards,  if  the  term  can  be 
applied  to  French  children,  his  life  was  a  succes- 
sion of  artistic  abnormalities  and  tours  de  force. 
The  bantling  in  petticoats  who  could  astound  his 
elders  with  wonderfully  accurate  silhouettes,  con- 
tinued to  surprise  them  in  other  ways.  His 
memory  was  no  less  amazing  than  his  draughts- 
manship. When  seven  years  of  age,  he  was  taken 
to  the  opera  and  witnessed  Robert  le  Diable. 
On  returning  home  he  accurately  narrated  every 
scene. 

At  eight  he  broke  his  right  arm,  but  became  as 
if  by  magic  ambidextrous,  whilst  confined  to  bed, 
cheerily  drawing  all  day  long  with  the  left  hand. 
At  ten  he  witnessed  a  gran'd  public  ceremony.  In 
1840  Strasburg  celebrated  the  inauguration  of  a 
monument  to  Gutenberg,  the  festival  being  one 
of  extraordinary  splendour.  Fifteen  cars  repre- 
sented the  industrial  corporations  of  the  city, 
each  symbolically  adorned,  and  in  each  riding 


102    IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

figures  suitably  travestied  and  occupied,  men, 
women  and  children  wearing  the  costumes  of  the 
period  represented.  Among  the  corporations 
figured  the  Peintres-verriers,  or  painters  on 
stained  glass,  their  car  proving  especially  attrac- 
tive to  one  small  looker-on. 

Intoxicated  by  the  colour  and  movement  of  the 
fete,  garlanded  and  beflagged  streets,  the 
symbolic  carriages,  the  bands,  civic  and  military, 
and  the  prevailing  enthusiasm,  the  child  deter- 
mined to  get  up  an  apotheosis  of  his  own :  in 
other  words,  to  repeat  the  performance  on  a 
smaller  scale.  Which  he  did.  Cars,  costumes, 
banners  and  'decorations  were  all  designed  by  this 
imp  of  ten.  With  the  approval  of  his  professors 
and  the  collaboration  of  his  school-fellows,  the 
Dore  procession,  consisting  of  four  highly  decor- 
ated cars,  drawn  by  boys,  defiled  before  the 
college  authorities  and  made  the  round  of  the 
cathedral,  the  youthful  impresario  at  its  head. 
The  car  of  the  painters  on  glass  was  conspicu- 
ously elaborate,  a  star  copied  from  a  Cathedral 
window  showing  the  superscription,  G.  DorJ, 
fecit.  Small  wonder  is  it  that  the  adoring  mother 
of  an  equally  adoring  son  should  have  believed 
in  him  from  the  first,  and  seen  in  these  begin- 
nings the  dawn  of  genius,  the  advent,  indeed,  of 
a  second  Michael  Angelo  or  Titian, 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     103 

The  more  practical  father  might  chide  such 
overreaching  vaticinations,  might  reiterate — 

"  Do  not  fill  the  boy's  head  with  nonsense." 

The  answer  would  be — 

"  I  know  it.    Our  son  is  a  genius." 

And  Dore  pere  gave  way,  under  circumstances 
curious  enough. 

II 

In  1847  tne  family  visited  Paris,  there  to 
Gustave's  delight  spending  four  months.  Loiter- 
ing one  day  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Bourse, 
his  eye  lighted  upon  comic  papers  with  cuts 
published  by  MM.  Auber  and  Philipon.  Their 
shop  windows  were  full  of  caricatures,  and  after 
a  long  and  intent  gaze  the  boy  returned  home,  in 
two  or  three  days  presenting  himself  before  the 
proprietors  with  half-a-dozen  drawings  much  in 
the  style  of  those  witnessed.  The  benevolent  but 
businesslike  M.  Philipon  examined  the  sketches 
attentively,  put  several  questions  to  his  young 
visitor,  and,  finding  that  the  step  had  been  taken 
surreptitiously,  immediately  sat  down  and  wrote 
to  M.  and  Mme.  Dore.  He  urged  them  with  all 
the  inducements  he  could  command  to  allow  their 
son  the  free  choice  of  a  career,  assuring  them  of 
his  future. 


104    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


A  few  days  later  an  agreement  was  signed  by 
father  and  publisher  to  this  effect :  During  three 
years  the  latter  was  to  receive  upon  certain  terms 
a  weekly  cartoon  from  the  sixteen-year-old  artist, 
who,  on  his  side,  bound  himself  to  offer  no  sketches 
elsewhere.1  Meanwhile,  Gustave  would  pursue 
his  studies  at  the  Lycee  Charlemagne,  his  patron 
promising  to  look  after  his  health  and  well-being. 
The  arrangement  answered,  and  in  Le  Journal 
pour  rire  the  weekly  caricature  signed  by  Dore 
soon  noised  his  fame  abroad.  Ugly,  even  hideous, 
as  were  many  of  these  caricatures,  they  did  double 
duty,  paying  the  lad's  school  expenses,  and 
paving  the  way  to  better  things.  Of  caricature 
Dore  soon  tired,  and  after  this  early  period  never 
returned  to  it.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  facile 
success  and  excessive  laudation  should  turn  the 
stripling's  head?  Professionally,  if  not  artistic- 
ally speaking,  Dore  passed  straight  from  child  to 
man;  in  one  sense  of  the  word  he  had  no  boy- 
hood, the  term  tyro  remained  inapplicable.  This 
undersized,  fragile  lad,  looking  years  younger 
than  he  really  was,  soon  found  himself  on  what 
must  have  appeared  a  pinnacle  of  fame  and 
fortune. 

Shortly  after  his  agreement  with  Philipon,  his 
father  died,  and  Mme.  Dore  with  her  family 

1  This  document  was  reproduced  in  Le  Figaro  of  December 
4,  1848. 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF   ALSACE     105 

removed  to  Paris,  settling  in  a  picturesque 
and  historic  hotel  of  the  Rue  St.  Dominique. 
Here  Dore  lived  for  the  rest  of  his  too  short 
life. 

The  house  had  belonged  to  the  family  of  Saint 
Simon,  that  terrible  observer  under  whose  gaze 
even  Louis  XIV.  is  said  to  have  quailed.  So  aver 
historians  of  the  period.  The  associations  of  his 
home  immediately  quickened  Bore's  inventive 
faculties.  He  at  once  set  to  work  and  organized 
a  brilliant  set  of  tableaux  vivants,  illustrating 
scenes  from  the  immortal  Memoires.  The  under- 
taking proved  a  great  social  success,  and  hence- 
forth we  hear  of  galas,  soirees,  theatricals  and 
other  entertainments  increasing  in  splendour  with 
the  young  artist's  vogue — and  means. 

The  history  of  the  next  twenty  years  reads  like 
a  page  from  the  Arabian  Nights.  Although 
dazzling  is  the  record  from  first  to  last,  and 
despite  the  millions  of  francs  earned  during  those 
two  decades,  the  artist's  ambition  was  never 
satisfied.  We  are  always  conscious  of  bitterness 
and  disillusion.  As  an  illustrator,  no  longer  of 
cheap  comic  papers  but  of  literary  masterpieces 
brought  out  in  costly  fashion,  Dore  reached  the 
first  rank  at  twenty,  his  Rabelais  setting  the  seal 
on  his  renown.  So  immense  was  the  success  of 
this  truly  colossal  undertaking  and  of  its  suc- 
cessors, the  Don  Quixote,  the  Conies  de  fees  of 


106    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Perrault  and  the  rest,  that  he  meditated  nothing 
less  than  the  illustration  of  cosmopolitan  chefs 
'd'ceuvre,  en  bloc,  a  series  which  should  include 
every  great  imaginative  work  of  the  .Western 
world!  Thus  in  1855  we  find  him  noting  the 
following  projects,  to  be  carried  out  in  ten  years' 
time  : — illustrations  of  /Eschylus,  Lucan,  Ovid, 
Shakespeare,  Goethe  (Faust),  Lamartine  (Medi- 
tations), Racine,  Corneille,  Schiller,  Boccaccio, 
Montaigne,  Plutarch's  Lives — these  names  among 
others.  The  jottings  in  question  were  written  for 
a  friend  who  had  undertaken  to  write  the  artist's 
biography. 

The  Rabelais,  Don  Quixote,  The  Inferno,  and 
several  more  of  these  sumptuous  volumes  were 
brought  out  in  England.  Forty  years  ago  Dore's 
bold  and  richly  imaginative  work  was  in  great 
favour  here;  indeed,  throughout  his  life  he  was 
much  more  appreciated  by  ourselves  than  by  his 
countrymen.  All  the  drawings  were  done  straight 
upon  wood.  Lavish  in  daily  life,  generous  of 
the  generous,  Dore  showed  the  same  lavishness 
in  his  procedure.  Some  curious  particulars  are 
given  upon  this  head.  Fabulous  sums  were  spent 
upon  his  blocks,  even  small  ones  costing  as  much 
as  four  pounds  apiece.  He  must  always  have  the 
very  best  wood,  no  matter  the  cost,  and  it  was 
only  the  whitest,  smoothest  and  glossiest  box- 
wood that  satisfied  him.  Enormous  sums  were 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     107 

spent  upon  this  material,  and  to  his  honour  be  it 
recorded,  that  no  matter  the  destination  of  a 
block,  the  same  cost,  thought  and  minute  manipu- 
lation were  expended  upon  a  trifling  commission 
as  upon  one  involving  thousands  of  pounds.  The 
penny  paper  was  treated  precisely  the  same  as 
the  volume  to  be  brought  out  at  two  guineas.  In 
the  zenith  of  his  fame  as  an  illustrator,  at  a  time 
when  tip-top  authors  and  editors  were  all 
clamouring  for  his  drawings,  he  did  not  despise 
humbler  admirers  and  clients.  His  delight  in  his 
work  was  only  equalled  by  quite  abnormal 
physical  and  mental  powers.  Sleep,  food,  fresh 
air,  everything  was  forgotten  in  the  engrossment 
of  work.  At  this  time  he  would  often  give  himself 
three  hours  of  sleep  only. 

Dore's  ambition — rather,  one  of  his  ambitions 
— was  to  perfect  wood  engraving  as  an  art,  hence 
his  indifference  to  the  cost  of  production.  Hence, 
doubtless,  his  persistence  in  drawing  on  wood 
without  preliminary  sketch  or  copy. 

Perhaps  such  obsession  was  natural.  How 
could  he  foresee  the  variety  of  new  methods  that 
were  so  soon  to  transform  book  illustration? 
Anyhow,  herein  partly  lies  the  explanation  of  the 
following  notice  in  a  second-hand  book  catalogue, 
1911 — 

"No.  355.  Gustave  Dore:  Dante's  Inferno, 
with  76  full -page  illustrations  by  Dore*.  4to, 


108     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


gilt  top,  binding  soiled,  but  otherwise  good  copy. 
42^.  for  35.  6d.     London,  n.d." 

A  leading  London  publisher  consulted  by  me 
on  the  subject,  writes  as  follows— 

"  Dore's  works  are  no  longer  in  vogue.  One 
of  the  reasons  lies  in  the  fact  that  his  pictures 
were  done  by  the  old  engraved  process.  He  drew 
them  straight  on  wood,  and  there  are,  accordingly, 
no  original  drawings  to  be  reproduced  by  modern 
methods." 

The  words  "  fatal  facility  "  cannot  be  applied  to 
so  consummate  a  draughtsman  as  the  illustrator 
of  Dante,  Cervantes  and  Victor  Hugo.  But 
Dore's  almost  superhuman  memory  was  no  less 
of  a  pitfall  than  manual  dexterity.  The  follow- 
ing story  will  partly  explain  his  dislike  of 
facsimile  and  duplication. 

An  intimate  friend,  named  Bourdelin,  relates 
how  one  day  during  the  siege  of  Paris,  the  pair 
found  themselves  by  the  Courbevoie  bridge. 
One  side  of  this  bridge  was  guarded  by  French 
gendarmes,  the  other  by  German  officers, 
Prussians,  Saxons,  Bavarians,  a  dozen  in  all.  For 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  two  Frenchmen  lingered, 
Dore  intently  gazing  on  the  group  opposite.  On 
returning  home  some  hours  later  he  produced  a 
sketch-book  and  in  Bourdelin's  presence  swiftly 
outlined  the  twelve  figures,  exactly  reproducing 
not  only  physiognomic  divergences  but  every 


<  MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     109 

detail  of  costume !  Poor  Dore !  In  those 
ardently  patriotic  days  he  entirely  relied  upon 
victory  and  drew  an  anticipatory  picture  of  France 
triumphant,  entitled,  "  Le  Passage  du  Rhin." 
But  the  French  never  crossed  the  Rhine,  and  the 
drawing  was  given  to  this  friend  with  the  words : 
"  My  sketch  has  no  longer  any  raison  d'etre. 
Keep  it  in  memory  of  our  fallacious  hopes/' 


III 

In  an  evil  hour  for  his  peace  of  mind  and  his 
fame,  Dore  decided  to  leave  illustration  and 
become  a  historic  painter.  He  evidently  regarded 
genius  as  a  Pandora's  gift,  an  all-embracing 
finality,  an  endowment  that  could  neither  be 
worsened  nor  bettered,  being  complete  in  itself. 

A  reader  of  Ariosto,  he  had  not  taken  to  heart 
one  of  his  most  memorable  verses,  those  melli- 
fluous lines  in  which  the  poet  dwells  upon  the 
laboriousness  of  intellectual  achievement.  Nor 
when  illustrating  the  Arabian  Nights  had  the 
wonderful  story  of  Hasan  of  El-Basrah  evidently 
brought  home  to  him  the  same  moral. 

Between  a  Dore  and  his  object — so  he  deemed 
— existed  neither  "  seven  valleys  nor  seven  seas, 
nor  seven  mountains  of  vast  magnitude."  A 
Dore  needed  no  assistance  of  the  flying  Jinn  and 


110    IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

the  wandering  stars  on  his  way,  no  flying  horse, 
"which  when  he  went  along  flew,  and  when  he 
flew  the  dust  overtook  him  not." 

Without  the  equipment  of  training,  without 
recognition  of  such  a  handicap,  he  entered  upon 
his  new  career. 

In  1854  for  the  first  time  two  pictures  signed 
by  Dore  appeared  on  the  walls  of  the  Salon. 
But  the  canvases  passed  unnoticed.  The 
Parisians  would  not  take  the  would-be  painter 
seriously,  and  the  following  year's  experience 
proved  hardly  less  disheartening.  Of  four 
pictures  sent  in,  three  were  accepted,  one  of 
these  being  a  historic  subject,  the  other  two  being 
landscapes.  The  first,  "  La  Bataille  de  1' Alma," 
evoked  considerable  criticism.  The  rural  scenes 
were  hung,  as  Edmond  About  expressed  it,  so 
high  as  to  need  a  telescope. 

Both  About  and  Th.  Gautier  believed  in  their 
friend's  newly-developed  talent,  but  art-critics 
and  the  public  held  aloof.  No  medal  was  decreed 
by  the  jury,  and,  accustomed  as  he  had  been  to 
triumph  after  triumph,  his  fondest  hopes  for  the 
second  time  deceived,  Dore  grew  bitter  and 
acrimonious.  That  his  failure  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  real  question  at  issue,  namely,  his 
genius  as  a  historic  painter,  he  would  never  for 
a  moment  admit.  Jealousy,  cabals,  prejudice 
only  were  accountable. 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     111 

The  half  dozen  years  following  were  divided 
between  delightfully  gay  and  varied  sociabilities, 
feverishly  prolonged  working  hours  and  foreign 
travel.  The  millions  of  francs  earned  by  his 
illustrations  gave  him  everything  he  wanted  but 
one,  that  one,  in  his  eyes,  worth  all  the  rest. 

Travel,  a  splendid  studio,  largesses — he  was 
generosity  itself — all  these  were  within  his  reach. 
The  craved-for  renown  remained  ungraspable. 

Even  visits  to  his  favourite  resort,  Barr, 
brought  disenchantment.  He  found  old  acquaint- 
ances and  the  country  folks  generally  wanting  in 
appreciation.  With  greater  and  lesser  men,  he 
subacidly  said  to  himself  that  a  man  was  no 
prophet  in  his  own  country. 

Ten  years  after  the  fiasco  of  his  first  canvases 
in  the  Salon  came  an  invitation  to  England  and 
the  alluring  project  of  a  Dore  gallery.  The  Dore 
Bible  and  Tennyson,  with  other  works,  had 
paved  the  way  for  a  right  royal  reception.  The 
streets  of  London,  as  he  could  well  believe,  were 
paved  with  gold.  But  many  were  the  contra. 
"I  feel  the  presentiment,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"that  if  I  betake  myself  to  England,  I  shall 
break  with  my  own  country  and  lose  prestige  and 
influence  in  France.  I  cannot  exist  without  my 
friends,  my  habits  and  my  pot-au-feu.  Folks 
tell  me  that  England  is  a  land  of  fogs,  that  the 
sun  never  shines  there,  that  the  inhabitants  are 


112     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


cold,  and  that  I  should  most  likely  suffer  from 
sea-sickness  in  crossing  the  Manche.  To  sum  up, 
England  is  a  long  way  off,  and  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  give  up  the  project." 

Friendly  persuasion,  self-interest,  wounded 
self-love  carried  the  day.  Reluctantly  he  decided 
upon  the  redoubtable  sea-voyage.  Whether  he 
suffered  from  sea-sickness  or  no  we  are  not  told. 
In  any  case  the  visit  was  repeated,  John  Bull 
according  the  great  Alsatian,  as  he  was  called, 
what  France  had  so  persistently  withheld. 

Dore  was  here  accorded  the  first  rank  among 
historic  painters.  His  gallery  in  Bond  Street 
became  one  of  the  London  sights;  in  fashionable 
society,  if  not  in  the  close  ring  of  the  great 
Victorian  artists,  he  made  a  leading  figure. 
Royalty  patronized  and  welcomed  him.  The 
Queen  bought  one  of  his  pictures  ("  Le  Psalterion," 
now  at  Windsor),  and  invited  him  to  Balmoral. 
The  heir-apparent,  the  late  King,  admired  his 
talent  and  relished  his  society.  By  the  clerical 
world  he  was  especially  esteemed,  being  looked 
upon  as  a  second  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  And,  in 
fine,  Dore  must  be  regarded  as  an  anticipator 
of  the  Entente  cordiale.  "  Gustave  Dore,"  his 
compatriots  would  say,  "he  is  half  an  English- 
man !  "  Forty  years  ago  our  popular  favourite 
might  indeed  have  believed  in  the  fulfilment  of 
his  dream.  The  Thorwaldsen  Gallery  of  Copen- 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF   ALSACE     113 

hagen  had  ever  dazzled  his  imagination.  Bond 
Street  was  not  Paris,  certainly,  but  in  the  greatest 
metropolis  of  the  world  his  memory  would  be  for 
ever  perpetuated.  Turning  to  the  dithyrambic 
utterances  of  the  London  Press  at  the  time  we 
can  hardly  wonder  at  the  hallucination. 

Here  are  one  or  two  passages  culled  from 
leading  dailies  and  weeklies — 

"  In  gravity  and  magnitude  of  purpose,  no  less 
than  in  the  scope  and  power  of  his  imagination, 
he  towers  like  a  Colossus  among  his  contempo- 
raries. Compared  with  such  a  work  as  'Christ 
leaving  the  Prsetorium/  the  pictures  in  Burlington 
House  look  like  the  production  of  a  race  of 
dwarfs  whose  mental  faculties  are  as  diminutive 
as  their  stature.  And  it  is  not  alone  the  efforts 
of  the  English  School  of  Painting  that  appear 
puny  in  presence  of  so  great  and  gigantic  an 
undertaking;  the  work  of  all  the  existing  schools 
of  Europe  sinks  into  equal  insignificance,  and  we 
must  go  back  to  the  Italian  painters  of  the 
sixteenth  century  to  find  a  picture  worthy  of  being 
classed  with  this  latest  and  most  stupendous 
achievement  of  the  great  French  master." 

Elsewhere  we  read — 

"The  most  marvellous  picture  of  the  present 
age  is  to  be  seen  at  35,  New  Bond  Street.  The 
subject  is  '  Christ  leaving  the  Praetorium.'  The 
painter  is  the  world-renowned  Gustave  Dore." 


114     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

A  journal  devoted  to  art-criticism  wrote — 

"  In  '  The  Christian  Martyrs '  we  have  a  strik- 
ing, thrilling  and  ennobling  picture." 

And  so  on,  and  so  on.  Yet  at  this  time  among 
"  the  dwarfs  "  of  Burlington  House  then  exhibit- 
ing was  Millais,  and  contemporaneously  with 
Dore  in  our  midst,  1870-1,  was  Daubigny,  whose 
tiniest  canvases  now  fetch  their  thousands ! 

It  was  during  Dore's  apogee  in  England  that 
a  well-known  French  amateur,  also  visiting  our 
shores,  was  thus  addressed  by  an  English  friend  : 
"  Come  with  me  to  Bond  Street,  you  will 
there  see  the  work  of  your  greatest  living 
painter." 

"  Our  greatest  painter !  "  exclaimed  the  other. 
"You  mean  your  own.  Dore  is  our  first 
draughtsman  of  France,  yes,  but  painter,  never, 
neither  the  greatest  nor  great;  at  least  we  were 
ignorant  of  the  fact  till  informed  of  it  by  yourself 
and  your  country-people." 

Dore  knew  well  how  matters  stood,  and  bitterly 
resented  the  attitude  of  his  own  nation.  Accorded 
a  princely  welcome  across  the  Manche,  his  work 
worth  its  weight  in  gold  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic,  in  France  he  was  looked  at  askance, 
even  as  a  painter  ignored.  He  regarded  himself 
as  shut  out  from  his  rightful  heritage,  and  the 
victim,  if  not  of  a  conspiracy,  of  a  cabal.  His 
school  playmates  and  close  friends,  Taine, 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF   ALSACE    115 

Edmond  About  and  Th.  Gautier,  might  be  on  his 
side;  perhaps,  with  reservations,  Rossini  and  a 
few  other  eminent  associates  also.  But  the  pre- 
scient, unerring  verdict  of  the  collective  "  man  in 
the  street"— 

"The  people's  voice,   the    proof    and  echo  of  all    human 
fame  "— 

he  missed;  resentment  preyed  upon  his  spirits, 
undermined  his  vitality,  and  doubtless  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  his  premature  breakdown. 

The  Dore  gallery  indeed  proved  his  Capua, 
the  long-stop  to  his  fame. 


IV 

As  a  personality  the  would-be  Titian,  Diirer, 
Thorwaldsen  and  Benvenuto  Cellini  in  one  pre- 
sents an  engaging  figure.  His  domestic  life  makes 
very  pleasant  reading.  We  find  no  dark  holes  and 
corners  in  the  career  of  one  who  may  be  said  to 
have  remained  a  boy  to  the  end,  at  fifty  as  at  five 
full  of  freak  and  initiative,  clingingly  attached  to 
a  devoted  and  richly-endowed  mother,  and  the 
ebullient  spirit  of  a  happy  home.  With  his 
rapidly  increasing  fortune,  the  historic  house  in 
the  Rue  Dominique  became  an  artistic,  musical 
and  dramatic  centre.  His  fetes  were  worthy  of  a 
millionaire,  and,  alike  in  those  private  theatricals, 


I  2 


116    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

tableaux  vivants  or  concerts,  he  ever  took  a  lead- 
ing part.  An  accomplished  violinist,  Dore  found 
in  music  a  never-failing  stimulant  and  refresh- 
ment. Rossini  was  one  of  his  circle,  among  others 
were  the  two  Gautiers,  the  two  Dumas,  Carolus 
Duran,  Liszt,  Gounod,  Patti,  Alboni  and  Nilsson, 
Mme.  Dore,  still  handsome  and  alert  in  her  old 
age,  proudly  doing  the  honours  of  what  was  now 
called  the  Hotel  Dore.  By  his  literary  and  artistic 
brethren  the  many-faceted  genius  and  exhilarat- 
ing host  was  fully  appreciated.  Generosities  he 
ever  freely  indulged  in,  the  wealth  of  such  rapid 
attainment  being  dispensed  with  an  ungrudgeful 
hand.  To  works  of  charity  the  great  illustrator 
gave  largely,  but  we  hear  of  no  untoward  mis- 
reckonings,  nor  bills  drawn  upon  time,  health  or 
talents.  With  him,  as  with  the  average  French- 
man, solvency  was  an  eleventh  commandment. 

Meantime,  as  the  years  wore  on,  again  and 
again  he  bid  desperately  for  the  suffrages  with- 
held, his  legitimately  won  renown  held  by  him  of 
small  account.  To  his  American  biographer  he 
said,  on  showing  her  some  of  his  pictures^:.  "  I 
illustrate  books  in  order  to  pay  for  my  colours 
and  paint-brushes.  I  was  born  a  painter." 

On  the  lady's  companion,  an  American  officer, 
naively  asking  if  certain  canvases  were  designed 
for  London  or  Paris,  he  answered  with  bitter 
irony — • 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF   ALSACE      117 

"  Paris,  forsooth !  I  do  not  paint  well  enough 
for  Paris."  As  he  spoke  his  face  became  clouded. 
The  gay,  jovial  host  of  a  few  minutes  before 
sighed  deeply,  and  during  their  visit  could  not 
shake  off  depression. 

Two  crowning  humiliations  came  before  the 
one  real  sorrow  of  his  life,  the  loss  of  that  gifted 
mother  who  was  alike  his  boon  companion, 
closest  confidante  and  enthusiastic  Egeria.  Per- 
petually seeking  laurels  in  new  fields,  in  1877  he 
made  his  debut  as  a  sculptor.  The  marble  group, 
"  La  Parque  et  1'Amour,"  signed  G.  Dore,  won  a 
succes  d'estime,  no  more.  In  the  following  year 
was  opened  the  great  international  exhibition  on 
the  Champ  de  Mars,  Dore's  enormous  monu- 
mental vase  being  conspicuously  placed  over  one 
of  the  porticoes.  This  astounding  achievement 
in  bronze,  appropriately  named  the  "  Poeme  de  la 
Vigne,"  created  quite  a  sensation  at  the  time. 
Reproductions  appeared  in  papers  of  all  countries 
containing  a  printing  press  or  photographic 
machine.  But  for  the  artist's  name,  doubtless  his 
work  would  have  attained  the  gold  medal  and 
other  honours.  The  Brobdingnagian  vase,  so 
wonderfully  decorated  with  flowers,  animals 
and  arabesques,  was  passed  over  by  the  jury. 

Equally  mortifying  was  the  fate  of  his  marble 
group  in  the  same  year's  Salon.  This  subject,  "  La 
Gloire,"  had  a  place  of  honour  in  the  sculpture 


118     IN  THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

gallery  and  won  universal  suffrages.  The  critics 
echoed  popular  approval.  The  jury  remained 
passive.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  unneces- 
sarily crushing  defeats — for  why,  indeed,  should 
any  mortal  have  craved  more  than  mortal 
success? — that  Mme.  Bore's  forces  gave  way. 
From  that  time  till  her  death,  which  occurred  two 
years  later,  her  son's  place  was  by  her  side,  flout- 
ings,  projects,  health  and  pleasure,  forgotten,  his 
entire  thoughts  being  given  to  the  invalid.  No  more 
beautiful  picture  of  filial  devotion  could  suggest 
itself  to  the  painter  of  domestic  subjects  than  this, 
Dore  with  table  and  sketching  materials  seated 
in  his  mother's  sick-room,  or  at  night  ministering 
to  her  in  wakeful  moments.  At  dawn  he  would 
snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep,  but  that  was  all.  No 
wonder  that  his  own  health  should  give  way  so 
soon  after  the  death-blow  of  her  loss. 

"My  friend,"  he  wrote  to  an  English  boon 
companion,  on  March  16,  1881,  "she  is  no  more. 
I  am  alone.  You  are  a  clergyman,  I  entreat  you 
to  pray  for  the  repose  of  her  beloved  soul  and 
the  preservation  of  my  reason.5' 

A  few  days  later  he  wrote  to  the  same  friend 
of  his  "frightful  solitude,"  adding  his  regret  at 
not  having  anticipated  such  a  blank  and  made 
for  himself  a  home — in  other  words,  taken  a 
wife. 

Some  kind  matchmaking  friends  set  to  work 


'MARVELLOUS   BOY'   OF  ALSACE     119 

and   found,   so   at   least  they   fancied,   a   bride 
exactly  calculated  to  render  him  happy. 

But  on  January  23,  1883,  Dore  died,  pre- 
maturely aged  and  broken  down  by  grief,  corrod- 
ing disappointment  and  quite  frenzied  overwork 
and  ambition. 

He  never  attained  recognition  as  a  historic 
painter  among  his  country-folks.  One  canvas, 
however,  "  Tobit  and  the  Angel,"  is  placed  in  the 
Luxembourg,  and  his  monument  to  Dumas 
ornaments  the  capital.  His  renown  as  an  illus- 
trator remains  high  as  ever  in  France.  And  one, 
that  one,  the  passionately  desired  prize  of  every 
Frenchman,  became  his  :  in  1861  he  was  decorated 
with  the  Red  Ribbon.  Six  of  Dore's  great 
religious  subjects  retain  their  place  in  the  Bond 
Street  Gallery,  but  for  reasons  given  above  his 
wonderfully  imaginative  illustrations  are  here 
forgotten. 

The  superb  edition  of  the  Enid  (Moxon,  1868), 
a  folio  bound  in  royal  purple  and  gold,  and 
printed  on  paper  thick  as  vellum,  the  volume 
weighing  four  pounds,  awakens  melancholy 
reflections.  What  would  have  been  poor  Dore's 
feelings  had  he  lived  to  see  such  a  guinea's  worth, 
and  cheap  at  the  price,  gladly  sold,  rather  got  rid 
of,  for  three  shillings ! 

Dore's  last  work,  the  unconventional  monu- 
ment to  the  elder  Dumas,  was  left  unfinished. 


120    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Completed  by  another  hand,  the  group  now  forms 
a  conspicuous  object  in  the  Avenue  Villiers,  Paris. 
The  striking  figure  of  the  great  quadroon,  with 
his  short  crisped  locks,  suggests  a  closer  relation- 
ship to  the  race  thus  apostrophized  by  Walt 
Whitman — 

"  You,  dim  descended,  black,  divine  souled  African  .  .  ." 

He  surmounts  a  lofty  pedestal,  on  the  base 
being  seated  a  homely  group,  three  working 
folks,  a  mob-capped  woman  reading  a  Dumas 
novel  to  two  companions,  evidently  her  father 
and  husband,  sons  of  the  soil,  drinking  in  every 
word,  their  attitude  of  the  most  complete  absorp- 
tion. Classicists  an'd  purists  in  art  doubtless 
look  askance  at  a  work  which  would  certainly 
have  enchanted  the  sovereign  romancer. 

"Will  folks  read  my  stories  when  I  am  gone, 
doctor?"  he  asked  as  he  lay  a-dying.  The  good 
physician  easily  reassured  his  patient.  "When 
we  have  patients  awaiting  some  much-dreaded 
operation  in  hospital,"  he  replied,  "  we  have  only 
to  give  them  one  of  your  novels.  Straightway 
they  forget  everything  else."  And  Dumas — "  the 
great,  the  humane,"  as  a  charming  poet  has  called 
him — died  happy.  As  well  he  might,  in  so  far  as 
his  fame  was  concerned.  La  Tulip e  Noire  would 
alone  have  assured  his  future. 


VI 

QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE 


QUISSAC   AND    SAUVE 

ONE  should  always  go  round  the  sun  to  meet 
the  moon  in  France,  that  is  to  say,  one  should 
ever  circumambulate,  never  make  straight  for 
the  lodestar  ahead.  The  way  to  almost  any  place 
of  renown,  natural,  historic  or  artistic,  is  sure  to 
teem  with  as  much  interest  as  that  to  which  we 
are  bound.  So  rich  a  palimpsest  is  French 
civilization,  so  varied  is  French  scenery,  so  multi- 
farious the  points  of  view  called  up  at  every  town, 
that  hurry  and  scurry  leave  us  hardly  better 
informed  than  when  we  set  out.  Thus  it  has  ever 
been  my  rule  to  indulge  in  the  most  preposterous 
peregrination,  taking  no  account  whatever  of 
days,  seasons  or  possible  cons,  hearkening  only 
to  the  pros,  and  never  so  much  as  glancing  at 
the  calendar.  Such  protracted  zigzaggeries  have 
been  made  easy  to  the  "devious  traveller"  by 
one  unusual  advantage.  Just  as  pioneers  in 
Australasia  find  Salvation  Army  shelters  scattered 
throughout  remotest  regions,  so,  fortunately,  have 
I  ever  been  able  to  count  upon  "harbour  and 
good  company"  during  my  thirty-five  years  of 

French  sojourn  and  travel. 

123 


124    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

To  reach  a  certain  Pyrenean  valley  in  which  I 
was  to  spend  a  holiday  would  only  have  meant  a 
night's  dash  by  express  from  Paris.  Instead,  I 
followed  the  south-eastern  route,  halting  at — 
Heaven  knows  how  many ! — already  familiar  and 
delightful  places  between  Paris  and  Dijon,  Dijon 
and  Lyons,  Lyons  and  Nimes;  from  the  latter 
city  being  bound  for  almost  as  many  more  before 
reaching  my  destination. 

Quite  naturally  I  would  often  find  myself  on 
the  track  of  that  "wise  and  honest  traveller,"  so 
John  Morley  calls  Arthur  Young. 

Half-way  between  Nimes  and  Le  Vigan  lies 
the  little  town  of  Sauve,  at  which  the  Suffolk 
farmer  halted  in  July  1787.  "Pass  six  leagues 
of  a  disagreeable  country,"  he  wrote.  :<  Vines 
and  olives." 

But  why  a  disagreeable  country?  Beautiful 
I  thought  the  landscape  as  I  went  over  the  same 
ground  on  a  warm  September  afternoon  a  century 
and  odd  years  later,  on  alighting  to  be  greeted 
with  a  cheery — > 

"  Here  I  am !  " 

As  a  rule  I  am  entirely  of  Montaigne's  opinion. 
"When  I  travel  in  Sicily,"  said  the  philosopher 
of  Gascony,  "  it  is  not  to  find  Gascons."  Dearly 
as  we  love  home  and  home-folk,  the  gist  of  travel 
lies  in  oppositeness  and  surprises.  We  do  not 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  125 

visit  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  globe  in  search  of 
next-door  neighbours.  That  cordial  "  Here  I 
am !  "  however,  had  an  unmistakable  accent,  just 
a  delightful  suspicion  of  French.  My  host  was 
a  gallant  naval  officer  long  since  retired  from 
service,  with  his  English  wife  and  two  daughters, 
spending  the  long  vacation  in  his  country 
home. 

High  above  the  little  village  of  Quissac  rises 
the  residence  of  beneficent  owners,  master  and 
mistress,  alas  !  long  since  gone  to  their  rest.  From 
its  terrace  the  eye  commands  a  vast  and  beautiful 
panorama,  a  richly  cultivated  plain  dotted  with 
villages  and  framed  by  the  blue  Cevennes. 
Tea  served  after  English  fashion  and  by  a 
dear  countrywoman,  everywhere  "  le  confortable 
Anglais"  admittedly  unattainable  by  French 
housewives,  could  not  for  a  single  moment  make 
me  forget  that  I  was  in  France.  And  when  the 
dinner  gong  sounded  came  the  final,  the 
unequivocal,  proof  of  distance. 

Imagine  dining  out  of  doors  and  in  evening 
dress  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  last  week  of  August ! 
The  table  was  set  on  the  wide  balcony  of  the 
upper  floor,  high  above  lawn  and  bosquets,  the 
most  chilly  person  having  here  nothing  to  fear. 
It  is  above  all  things  the  French  climate  that 
transports  us  so  far  from  home  and  makes  us 


126    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

feel  ourselves  hundreds,  nay,  thousands  of  miles 
away. 

I  have  elsewhere,  perhaps  ofttimes,  dwelt  on 
the  luminosity  of  the  atmosphere  in  southern  and 
south-western  France.  To-night  not  a  breath 
was  stirring,  the  outer  radiance  was  the  radiance 
of  stars  only,  yet  so  limpid,  so  lustrous  the  air 
that  cloudless  moonlight  could  hardly  have  made 
every  object  seem  clearer,  more  distinct.  The 
feeling  inspired  by  such  conditions  is  that  of 
enchantment.  For  the  nonce  we  may  yield  to  a 
spell,  fancy  ourselves  in  Armida's  enchanted 
garden  or  other  "  delightful  land  of  Faery." 

Not  for  long,  however !  Pleasant  practical 
matters  soon  recall  us  to  the  life  of  every  day. 
That  laborious,  out-of-door  existence,  which 
seems  sordid  in  superfine  English  eyes,  but  which 
is  never  without  the  gaiety  that  enchanted  Gold- 
smith and  Sterne  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 

Whilst  host  and  guest  dined  on  the  balcony, 
the  farming  folk  and  such  of  the  household  as 
could  be  spared  were  enjoying  a  starlit  supper 
elsewhere.  Later,  my  hostess  took  me  down- 
stairs and  introduced  her  English  visitor  to  a 
merry  but  strictly  decorous  party  having  a  special 
bit  of  sward  to  themselves,  bailiff,  vintagers, 
stockmen,  dairywoman,  washerwoman  and  odd 
hands  making  up  a  round  dozen  of  men,  women 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  127 

and  boys.  All  seemed  quite  at  home,  and  chatted 
easily  with  their  employer  and  the  visitor,  by  no 
means  perturbed,  rather  pleased  by  the  intrusion. 

And  here  I  will  mention  one  of  those  incidents 
that  lead  English  observers  into  so  many  mis- 
conceptions concerning  French  rural  life.  Little 
things  that  seem  sordid,  even  brutifying  to  insular 
eyes,  really  arise  from  incompatible  standards. 

The  Frenchman's  ideal  of  material  comfort 
begins  and  ends  with  solvency,  the  sense  of 
absolute  security  from  want  in  old  age.  Small 
comforts  he  sets  little  store  by;  provided  that  he 
gets  a  good  dinner,  lesser  considerations  go.  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  comforts  enjoyed 
by  our  own  farm-servants  half  a  century  ago  were 
far  in  excess  of  those  thought  more  than  sufficient 
by  French  labourers  and  their  employers.  On 
the  following  day  my  hosts  took  me  round  the 
farmery,  fowl-run,  piggeries,  neat-houses  and 
stalls  being  inspected  one  by  one.  When  we 
came  to  the  last  named,  I  noticed  at  the  door 
of  the  long  building  and  on  a  level  with  the 
feeding  troughs  for  oxen,  a  bed-shaped  wooden 
box  piled  up  with  fresh  clean  straw. 

'That   is   where    our   stockman   sleeps,"  ex- 
plained the  lady. 

Here,  then,  quite  contentedly  slept  the  herds- 
man of  a  large  estate  in  nineteenth-century 


128     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

France,  whilst  his  English  compeers  two  genera- 
tions before,  and  in  much  humbler  employ,  had 
their  tidy  bedroom  and  comfortable  bed  under 
the  farmer's  roof.  What  would  my  own  Suffolk 
ploughmen  have  said  to  the  notion  of  spending 
the  night  in  an  ox-stall  ?  But  autres  pays,  autres 
mceurs.  In  Deroulede's  fine  little  poem,  "  Bon 
gite,"  a  famished,  foot-sore  soldier  returning  home 
is  generously  entreated  by  a  poor  housewife. 
When  she  sets  about  preparing  a  bed  for  him,  he 
remonstrates — 

"Good  dame,  what  means  that  new-made  bed, 

Those  sheets  so  finely  spun  ? 
On  heaped-up  straw  in  cattle-shed, 
I'd  snore  till  rise  of  sun." 

The  compensations  for  apparent  hardship  in 
the  case  of  French  peasants  are  many  and  great. 
In  Henry  James's  great  series  of  dissolving 
views  called  The  American  Scene,  he  describes 
the  heterogeneous  masses  as  having  "  a  promoted 
look."  The  French  proletariat  have  not  a  pro- 
moted look,  rather  one  of  inherited,  traditional 
stability  and  self-respect.  One  and  all,  more- 
over, are  promoting  themselves,  rising  by  a  slow 
evolutionary  process  from  the  condition  of  wage- 
earner  to  that  of  metayer,  tenant,  lastly  free- 
holder. 

Although  the  immediate  environs  of  Quissac 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  129 

and  Sauve  are  not  remarkable,  magnificent  pros- 
pects are  obtained  a  little  farther  afield — our 
drives  and  walks  abounded  in  interest — and 
associations !  Strange  but  true  it  is  that  we  can 
hardly  halt  anywhere  in  France  without  coming 
upon  historic,  literary  or  artistic  memorials. 
Every  town  and  village  is  redolent  of  tradition, 
hardly  a  spot  but  is  glorified  by  genius ! 

Thus,  half-an-hour's  drive  from  our  village 
still  stands  the  chateau  and  birthplace  of  Florian, 
the  Pollux  of  fabulists,  La  Fontaine  being  the 
Castor,  no  other  stars  of  similar  magnitude 
shining  in  their  especial  arc. 

Jean-Pierre  Claris  de  Florian  was  born  here 
in  1755,  just  sixty  years  after  the  great  fabulist's 
death.  Nephew  of  a  marquis,  himself  nephew- 
in-law  of  Voltaire,  endowed  with  native  wit  and 
gaiety,  the  young  man  was  a  welcome  guest  at 
Fernay,  and  no  wonder !  His  enchanting  fables 
did  not  see  the  light  till  after  Voltaire's  death, 
but  we  will  hope  that  some  of  them  had  delighted 
his  host  in  recitation.  Many  of  us  who  loved 
French  in  early  years  have  a  warm  corner  in  our 
hearts  for  "  Numa  Pompilius,"  but  Florian  will 
live  as  the  second  fabulist  of  France,  to  my  own 
thinking  twin  of  his  forerunner. 

How  full  of  wisdom,  wit  and  sparkle  are  these 
apologues!  Take,  for  instance,  the  following, 


130    IN  THE  HEART   OF  THE  VOSGES 

which  to  the  best  of  my  ability  I  have  rendered 
into  our  mother  tongue— 

VANITY  (LE  PETIT  CHIEN). 

i 
Once  on  a  time  and  far  away, 

The  elephant  stood  first  in  might, 
He  had  by  many  a  forest  fray 

At  last  usurped  the  lion's  right. 
On  peace  and  reign  unquestioned  bent, 

The  ruler  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Forthwith  to  life-long  banishment 

Doomed  members  of  the  lion  race. 

ii 
Dispirited,  their  best  laid  low, 

The  vanquished  could  but  yield  to  fate, 
And  turn  their  backs  upon  the  foe 

In  silence  nursing  grief  and  hate. 
A  poodle  neatly  cropped  and  clipped, 

With  tasselled  tail  made  leonine, 
On  hearing  of  the  stern  rescript, 

Straightway  set  up  a  piteous  whine. 

in 
"  Alas  !  "  he  moaned.     "  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Where,  tyrant,  shall  I  shelter  find  ; 
Advancing  years  what  will  they  be, 

My  home  and  comforts  left  behind?" 
A  spaniel  hastened  at  the  cry, 

"  Come,  mate,  what's  this  to-do  about  ?  " 
"  Oh,  oh,"  the  other  gulped  reply, 

"  For  exile  we  must  all  set  out ! " 

IV 

"Must  all?"      "No,  you  are  safe,  good  friend; 

The  cruel  law  smites  us  alone; 
Here  undisturbed  your  days  may  end, 

The  lions  must  perforce  begone." 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  131 

"The  lions?     Brother,  pray  with  these, 
What  part  or  lot  have  such  as  you  ?  " 

"What  part,  forsooth?    You  love  to  tease; 
You  know  I  am  a  lion  too."1 

Here  is  another,  a  poem  of  essential  worldly 
wisdom,  to  be  bracketed  with  Browning's  equally 
oracular  "The  Statue  and  the  Bust,"  fable  and 
poem  forming  a  compendium. 

THE    FLIGHTY   PURPOSE 
PAYSAN  AND  LA  RIVIERE). 


"  I  now  intend  to  change  my  ways  "  — 

Thus  Juan  said  —  "No  more  for  me 
A  round  on  round  of  idle  days 

'Mid  soul-debasing  company. 
I've  pleasure  woo'd  from  year  to  year 

As  by  a  siren  onward  lured, 
At  last  of  roystering,  once  held  dear, 

I'm  as  a  man  of  sickness  cured. 

"Unto  the  world  I  bid  farewell, 

My  mind  to  retrospection  give, 
Remote  as  hermit  in  his  cell, 

For  wisdom  and  wise  friends  I'll  live." 
"Is  Thursday's  worldling,  Friday's  sage? 

Too  good  such  news,"  I  bantering  spoke. 
"  How  oft  you've  vowed  to  turn  the  page, 

Each  promise  vanishing  like  smoke! 

"And  when  the  start?"     "Next  week—  not  this." 
"Ah,  you  but  play  with  words  again." 

"Nay,  do  not  doubt  me;  hard  it  is 
To  break  at  once  a  life-long  chain." 

1  The  first  translation  appeared  with  others  in  French  Men, 
Women  and  Books,  1910.     The  second  was  lately  issued  in 
the  Westminster  Gazette. 
K  2 


132    IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

Came  we  unto  the  riverside, 

Where  motionless  a  rustic  sate, 
His  gaze  fixed  on  the  flowing  tide. 

"  Ho,  mate,  why  thus  so  still  and  squat  ?  " 

"Good  sirs,  bound  to  yon  town  am  I; 

No  bridge  anear,  I  sit  and  sit 
Until  these  waters  have  run  dry, 

So  that  afoot  I  get  to  it." 
"A  living  parable  behold, 

My  friend  ! "  quoth  I.     "  Upon  the  brim 
You,  too,  will  gaze  until  you're  old, 
But  never  boldly  take  a  swim  !  " 

As  far  as  I  know,  no  memorial  has  as  yet  been 
raised  to  the  fabulist  either  at  Quissac  or  at 
Sauve,  but  as  long  as  the  French  language  lasts 
successive  generations  will  keep  his  memory 
green.  Certain  of  his  fables  every  little  scholar 
knows  by  heart. 

Associations  of  other  kinds  are  come  upon  by 
travellers  bound  from  Quissac  to  Le  Vigan,  that 
charming  little  centre  of  silkworm  rearing 
described  by  me  elsewhere.  A  few  miles  from 
our  village  lies  Ganges,  a  name  for  ever  famous 
in  the  annals  of  political  economy  and  progress. 

"  From  Ganges/'  wrote  the  great  Suffolk 
farmer  in  July  1787,  "to  the  mountain  of  rough 
ground  which  I  crossed "  (in  the  direction  of 
Montdardier),  "  the  ride  has  been  the  most  inter- 
esting which  I  have  taken  in  France;  the  efforts 
of  industry  the  most  vigorous,  the  animation  the 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  133 

most  lively.  An  activity  has  been  here  that  has 
swept  away  all  difficulties  before  it  and  clothed 
the  very  rocks  with  verdure.  It  would  be  a 
disgrace  to  common  sense  to  ask  the  cause;  the 
enjoyment  of  property  must  have  done  it.  Give 
a  man  the  sure  possession  of  a  bleak  rock>  and 
he  will  turn  it  into  a  garden"  The  italics  are 
my  own.  When  will  Arthur  Young  have  his 
tablet  in  Westminster  Abbey,  I  wonder? 

The  department  of  the  Card  offers  an  anomaly 
of  the  greatest  historic  interest.  Here  and  here 
only  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  France 
villages  are  found  without  a  Catholic  church, 
communities  that  have  held  fast  to  Protestantism 
and  the  right  of  private  judgment  from  genera- 
tion to  generation  during  hundreds  of  years. 
Elsewhere,  in  the  Cote  d'Or,  for  instance,  as  I 
have  described  in  a  former  work,  Protestantism 
was  completely  stamped  out  by  the  Revocation, 
whole  villages  are  now  ultramontane,  having 
abjured,  the  alternatives  placed  before  them  being 
confiscation  of  property,  separation  of  children 
and  parents,  banishment,  prison  and  death.1 

The  supremacy  of  the  reformed  faith  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  facts :  A  few  years 
back,  of  the  six  deputies  representing  this  depart- 
ment five  were  Protestant  and  the  sixth  was  a 
1  See  Friendly  Faces>  chap.  xvi. 


134    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Jew.  The  Cornell  General  or  provincial  council 
numbered  twenty-three  Protestants  as  against 
seventeen  Catholics.  The  seven  members  of  the 
Board  of  Hospitals  at  Nimes,  three  of  the  four 
inspectors  of  public  health,  nine  of  the  twelve 
head-mistresses  of  girls'  schools,  twenty-nine  of 
forty  rural  magistrates,  were  Protestants. 

My  host  belonged  to  the  same  faith,  as  indeed 
do  most  of  his  class  and  the  great  captains  of 
local  industry.  It  is  not  as  in  Michelet's  fondly- 
loved  St.  Georges  de  Didonne,  where  only  the 
lowly  and  the  toiler  have  kept  the  faith 
aflame. 

But  whilst  neighbours  now  live  peacefully  side 
by  side,  a  gulf  still  divides  Catholic  and  Pro- 
testant. Although  half  a  millennium  has  elapsed 
since  the  greatest  crime  of  modern  history,  the 
two  bodies  remain  apart :  French  annexes  of 
Alsace-Lorraine  and  Germans  are  not  more  com- 
pletely divided.  Mixed  marriages  are  of  rarest 
occurrence,  intercourse  limited  to  the  conventional 
and  the  obligatory.  There  are  historic  curses 
that  defy  lustration.  St.  Bartholomew  is  one  of 
these.  I  must  now  say  something  about  the 
country-folks.  Calls  upon  our  rustic  neighbours, 
long  chats  with  affable  housewives,  and  rounds 
of  farmery,  vineyard  and  field  attracted  me 
more  than  the  magnificent  panoramas  to  be 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  135 

obtained  from  Corconne  and  other  villages  within 
an  easy  drive. 

George  Sand  has  ever  been  regarded  as  a 
poetizer  of  rural  life,  an  arch-idealist  of  her 
humbler  country-folks.  At  Quissac  I  made  more 
than  one  acquaintance  that  might  have  stepped 
out  of  La  -petite  Fadette  or  La  mare  au  Diable. 

One  old  woman  might  have  been  "  la  paisible 
amie,"  the  tranquil  friend,  to  whom  the  novelist 
dedicated  a  novel.  Neat,  contented,  active  and 
self-respecting,  she  enjoyed  a  life-interest  in  two 
acres  and  a  cottage,  her  live  stock  consisting  of 
a  goat,  a  pig  and  poultry,  her  invested  capital 
government  stock  representing  a  hundred  pounds. 
Meagre  as  may  seem  these  resources,  she  was  by 
no  means  to  be  pitied  or  inclined  to  pity  herself, 
earning  a  few  francs  here  and  there  by  charing, 
selling  her  little  crops,  what  eggs  and  chickens 
she  could  spare,  above  all  things  being  perfectly 
independent. 

A  charming  idyll  the  great  Sand  could  have 
found  here.  The  owner  of  a  thirty-acre  farm  had 
lately  died,  leaving  it  with  all  he  possessed  to 
two  adopted  children,  a  young  married  couple 
who  for  years  had  acted  respectively  as  steward 
and  housekeeper.  We  are  bound  to  infer  that  on 
the  one  hand  there  had  been  affection  and  grati- 
tude, on  the  other  the  same  qualities  with 


136    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

conscientiousness  in  business  matters.  The 
foster-father  was  childless  and  a  widower,  but, 
among  the  humble  as  well  as  the  rich  French, 
ambition  of  posthumous  remembrance  often  actu- 
ates impersonal  bequests.  This  worthy  Jacques 
Bonhomme  might  have  made  an  heir  of  his  native 
village,  leaving  money  for  a  new  school-house 
or  some  other  public  edifice.  Very  frequently 
towns  and  even  villages  become  legatees  of  the 
childless,  and  the  worthy  man  would  have  been 
quite  sure  of  a  statue,  a  memorial  tablet,  or  at 
least  of  having  his  name  added  to  a  street  or 
square. 

Before  taking  leave  of  Quissac  I  must  mention 
one  curious  fact. 

The  Proteus  of  Odyssean  story  or  the  King's 
daughter  and  the  Efreet  in  the  "  Second  Royal 
Mendicant's  Adventure,"  could  not  more  easily 
transform  themselves  than  the  French  peasant. 
Husbandman  to-day,  mechanic  on  the  morrow,  at 
one  season  he  plies  the  pruning-hook,  at  another 
he  turns  the  lathe.  This  adaptability  of  the 
French  mind,  strange  to  say,  is  nowhere  seen  to 
greater  advantage  than  in  out-of-the-way  regions, 
just  where  are  mental  torpidity  and  unbendable 
routine.  Not  one  of  Millet's  blue-bloused 
countrymen  but  masters  a  dozen  handicrafts. 

Thus,  whilst  the  heraldic  insignia  of   Sauve 


QUISSAC   AND   SAUVE  187 

should  be  a  trident,  those  of  Quissac  should  be 
surmounted  by  an  old  shoe  !  In  the  former  place 
the  forked  branches  of  the  Celtis  australis  or 
nettle  tree,  Ulmacea,  afford  a  most  profitable 
occupation.  From  its  tripartite  boughs  are  made 
yearly  thousands  upon  thousands  of  the  three- 
pronged  forks  used  in  agriculture.  The  wood, 
whilst  very  durable,  is  yielding,  and  lends  itself 
to  manipulation. 

In  Florian's  birthplace  folks  make  a  good 
living  out  of  old  boots  and  shoes !  Some  native 
genius  discovered  that,  however  well  worn  foot- 
gear may  be,  valuable  bits  of  leather  may  remain 
in  the  sole.  These  fragments  are  preserved,  and 
from  them  boot  heels  are  made ;  the  debris,  boots, 
shoes  and  slippers,  no  matter  the  material,  find 
their  way  to  the  soil  as  manure.  But  this  subject 
if  pursued  further  would  lead  to  a  lane,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  without  a  turning,  that  is  to 
say  to  a  treatise  on  French  rural  economy. 


VII 
AN   IMMORTALIZER 


AN    IMMORTALIZER 

IN  Kenan's  exquisitely  phrased  preface  to  his 
Drames  Philosophiques  occurs  the  following 
sentence  which  I  render  into  English  tant  bien 
que  mal:  "  Side  by  side  are  the  history  of  fact  and 
the  history  of  the  ideal,  the  latter  materially 
speaking  of  what  has  never  taken  place,  but  which, 
in  the  ideal  sense,  has  happened  a  thousand  times/' 

Who  when  visiting  the  beautiful  little  town  of 
Saumur  thinks  of  the  historic  figures  connected 
with  its  name?  Even  the  grand  personality  of 
Duplessis  Morny  sinks  into  insignificance  by  com- 
parison with  that  of  the  miser's  daughter,  the 
gentle,  ill-starred  Eugenie  Grandet !  And  who 
when  Carcassonne  first  breaks  upon  his  view 
thinks  of  aught  but  Nadaud's  immortal  peasant 
and  his  plaint — 

"  I'm  growing  old,  just  three  score  year, 

In  wet  and  dry,  in  dust  and  mire, 
I've  sweated,  never  getting  near 

Fulfilment  of  my  heart's  desire. 
Ah,  well  I  see  that  bliss  below 

;Tis  Heaven's  will  to  vouchsafe  none, 
Harvest  and  vintage  come  and  go, 
I've  never  got  to  Carcassonne ! " 
141 


142    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

The  tragi-comic  poem  of  six  eight-lined  verses 
ending  thus — 

"So  sighed  a  peasant  of  Limoux, 

A  worthy  neighbour  bent  and  worn. 
'  Ho,  friend,'  quoth  I,  '  I'll  go  with  you. 

We'll  sally  forth  to-morrow  morn.' 
And  true  enough  away  we  hied, 

But  when  our  goal  was  almost  won, 
God  rest  his  soul ! — the  good  man  died, 

He  never  got  to  Carcassonne ! " 

No  lover  of  France  certainly  should  die  with- 
out having  seen  Carcassonne,  foremost  of  what  I 
will  call  the  pictorial  Quadrilateral,  no  formidable 
array  after  the  manner  of  their  Austrian  cog- 
nominal,  but  lovely,  dreamlike  things.  These 
four  walled-in  towns  or  citadels,  perfect  as  when 
they  represented  mediaeval  defence,  are  Car- 
cassonne, Provins  in  the  Brie,  Semur  in  upper 
Burgundy,  and  the  Breton  Guerande,  scene  of 
Balzac's  Beatrix.  To  my  thinking,  and  I  have 
visited  each,  there  is  little  to  choose  between  the 
first  two,  but  exquisite  as  is  the  little  Briard 
acropolis,  those  imaginary  "topless  towers  of 
Ilium  "  of  Nadaud's  peasant  bear  the  palm.  That 
first  view  of  Carcassonne  as  we  approach  it  in 
the  railway  of  itself  repays  a  long  and  tedious 
journey.  A  vision  rather  than  reality,  structure 
of  pearly  clouds  in  mid-heaven,  seems  that 
opaline  pile  lightly  touched  with  gold.  We 


AN   IMMORTALIZER  143 

expect  it  to  evaporate  at  evenfall !  Vanish  it 
does  not,  nor  wholly  bring  disillusion,  so  fair  and 
harmonious  are  the  vistas  caught  in  one  circuit 
of  the  citadel,  mere  matter  of  twenty  minutes. 

But  the  place  by  this  time  has  become  so 
familiar  to  travellers  in  France  and  readers  of 
French  travel,  that  I  will  here  confine  myself  to 
its  glorifier,  author  of  a  song  that  has  toured  the 
world. 

The  first  biography  of  the  French  Tom  Moore, 
published  last  year,  gives  no  history  of  this  much 
translated  poem.1  Had,  indeed,  some  worthy 
vine-grower  poured  out  such  a  plaint  in  the  poet's 
ears?  Very  probably,  for  one  and  all  of  Nadaud's 
rural  poems  breathe  the  very  essence  of  the  fields, 
the  inmost  nature  of  the  peasant,  from  first  to  last 
they  reveal  Jacques  Bonhomme  to  us,  his  con- 
ceptions of  life,  his  mentality  and  limitations. 

Nadaud's  career  is  uneventful,  but  from  one 
point  of  view,  far  from  being  noteless,  he  was 
pre-eminently  the  happy  man.  His  biographer 
(A.  Varloy)  tells  us  of  a  smooth,  much  relished, 
even  an  exuberant  existence.  The  son  of  an 
excellent  bourgeois,  whose  ancestry,  nevertheless, 
like  that  of  many  another,  could  be  traced  for 

1  My  own  rendering  of  this  piece  and  many  other  of 
Nadaud's  songs  and  ballads  are  given  in  French  Men,  Women 
and  Books,  1910.  American  translators  have  admirably  trans- 
lated Carcassonne. 


144    IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

six  hundred  years,  his  early  surroundings  were 
the  least  lyric  imaginable. 

He  was  born  at  Roubaix,  the  flourishing  seat 
of  manufacture  near  Lille,  which,  although  a 
mere  chef-lieu  du  canton,  does  more  business 
with  the  Bank  of  France  than  the  big  cities  of 
Toulouse,  Nimes,  Montpellier  and  others  thrice 
its  size.  Dress  fabrics,  cloths  and  exquisite 
napery  are  the  products  of  Roubaix  and  its 
suburb;  vainly,  however,  does  any  uncommercial 
traveller  endeavour  to  see  the  weavers  at  work. 
Grimy  walls  and  crowded  factory  chimneys  are 
relieved  at  Roubaix  by  gardens  public  and 
private,  and  the  town  is  endowed  with  museums, 
libraries,  art  and  technical  schools.  But  Nadaud, 
like  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  if  asked  what  gave  him 
most  delectation,  would  certainly  have  replied— 

"Lorsque  j'ai  fait  un  vers  et  que  je  Taime, 
Je  me  paye  en  me  le  chantant  a  moi-meme." 

Here  is  the  boy's  daily  programme  when  a 
twelve-year-old  student  at  the  College  Rollin, 
Paris.  The  marvel  is  that  the  poetic  instinct 
survived  such  routine,  marvellous  also  the  fact 
that  the  dry-as-dust  in  authority  was  a  well-known 
translator  of  Walter  Scott.  If  anything  could 
have  conjured  the  Wizard  of  the  North  from  his 
grave  it  was  surely  these  particulars  written  by 


AN   IMMORTALIZER  145 

Gustave  Nadaud  to  his  father  on  the   igth  of 
October,  1833— 

"Five-thirty,  rise;  five-forty-five,  studies  till 
seven-thirty ;  breakfast  and  recreation  from  seven- 
thirty  till  eight;  from  eight  till  ten,  school;  from 
ten  to  a  quarter  past,  recreation;  from  a  quarter 
past  ten  till  half  past  twelve,  school ;  then  dinner 
and  recreation  from  one  till  two.  School  from 
two  till  half  past  four;  collation  from  half  past 
four  till  a  quarter  past  five;  school  from  a  quarter 
past  five  till  eight.  Supper  and  to  bed." 

Poetry  here  was,  however,  a  healthy  plant,  and 
in  his  school-days  this  born  song-writer  would 
scribble  verses  on  his  copy-books  and  read 
Racine  for  his  own  amusement.  Turning  his 
back  upon  the  mill-wheels  of  his  native  town  and 
an  assured  future  in  a  Parisian  business  house, 
like  Gil  Bias's  friend,  il  s'est  jete  dans  le  bel 
esprit — in  other  words,  he  betook  himself  to  the 
career  of  a  troubadour.  Never,  surely,  did  master 
of  song-craft  write  and  sing  so  many  ditties ! 

Quitting  school  with  a  tip-top  certificate  both 
as  to  conduct  and  application,  Gustave  Nadaud 
quickly  won  fame  if  not  fortune.  Hardly  of  age, 
he  wrote  somewrhat  Bohemian  effusions  that  at 
once  made  the  round  of  Parisian  music-halls. 

The  revolution,  if  it  brought  topsy-turvydom 
in  politics,  like  its  great  forerunner  '89  brought 


146     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  apogee  of  song.  The  popular  young  lyrist, 
ballader  and  minstrel,  for  Nadaud  accompanied 
himself  on  the  piano,  now  made  a  curious  com- 
pact, agreeing  to  write  songs  for  twenty  years,  a 
firm  named  Heugel  paying  him  six  thousand 
francs  yearly  by  way  of  remuneration. 

Two  hundred  and  forty  pounds  a  year  should 
seem  enough  for  a  young  man,  a  bachelor  brought 
up  in  bourgeois  simplicity.  But  the  cost  of  living 
in  Paris  was  apparently  as  high  sixty  years  ago 
as  now.  In  1856-7  he  wrote  to  a  friend  :  "  How 
upon  such  an  income  I  contrived  to  live  and 
frequent  Parisian  salons  without  ever  asking  a 
farthing  of  any  one,  only  those  who  have  been 
poor  can  tell."  The  salons  spoken  of  were  not 
only  aristocratic  but  Imperial,  the  late  Princess 
Mathilde  being  an  enthusiastic  hostess  and 
patroness.  Several  operettas  were  composed  by 
Nadaud  for  her  receptions  and  philanthropic 
entertainments.  Here  is  a  sketch  of  the  French 
Tom  Moore  in  1868  by  a  witty  contributor  of 
the  Figaro — 

"  Nadaud  then  seated  himself  at  the  piano, 
and  of  the  words  he  sang  I  give  you  full  measure, 
the  impression  produced  by  his  performance  I 
cannot  hope  to  convey.  Quite  indescribable  was 
the  concord  of  voice  and  hands,  on  the  music  as 
on  wings  each  syllable  being  lightly  borne,  yet 


AN   IMMORTALIZER  147 

its  meaning  thereby  intensified.  In  one's  memory 
only  can  such  delight  be  revived  and  reproduced." 

With  other  poets,  artists  and  musicians  Nadaud 
cast  vocation  to  the  winds  in  1870-1,  working  in 
field  and  other  hospitals.  "  I  did  my  best  to  act 
the  part  of  a  poor  little  sister  of  charity,"  he  wrote 
to  a  friend.  His  patriotic  poem,  "  La  grande 
blessee,"  was  written  during  that  terrible  appren- 
ticeship. 

With  Nadaud  henceforward  it  was  a  case  of 
roses,  roses  all  the  way.  Existence  he  had  ever 
taken  easily,  warm  friendships  doing  duty  for  a 
domestic  circle.  And  did  he  not  write — 

"  I  dreamed  of  an  ideal  love 
And  Benedick  remain?" 

His  songs  proved  a  mine  of  wealth,  and  the 
sumptuously  illustrated  edition  got  up  by  friends 
and  admirers  brought  him  80,000  francs,  with 
which  he  purchased  a  villa,  christened  Carcas- 
sonne, at  Nice,  therein  spending  sunny  and  sunny- 
tempered  days  and  dispensing  large-hearted 
hospitality.  To  luckless  brethren  of  the  lyre  he 
held  out  an  ungrudgeful  hand,  alas  !  meeting  with 
scant  return.  The  one  bitterness  of  his  life, 
indeed,  was  due  to  ingratitude.  Among  his 
papers  after  death  was  found  the  following 
note — 

'  Throughout  the  last  thirty  years  I  have  lent 

L  2 


148    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

sums,  large  considering  my  means,  to  friends, 
comrades  and  entire  strangers.  Never,  never, 
never  has  a  single  centime  been  repaid  by  a 
single  one  of  these  borrowers.  I  now  vow  to 
myself,  never  under  any  circumstances  whatever 
to  lend  money  again !  " 

Poor  song-writers,  nevertheless,  he  posthum- 
ously befriended.  By  his  will  with  the  bulk  of  his 
property  was  founded  "  La  petite  Caisse  des 
chansonniers,"  a  benefit  society  for  less  happy 
Nadauds  to  come.  By  aid  of  these  funds,  lyrists 
and  ballad-writers  unable  to  find  publishers  would 
be  held  on  their  onward  path.  Full  of  honours, 
Nadaud  died  in  1893,  monuments  being  erected 
to  his  memory,  streets  named  after  him,  and 
undiminished  popularity  keeping  his  name  alive. 

And  the  honour  denied  to  Beranger,  to  Victor 
Hugo,  to  Balzac,  the  coveted  sword  and  braided 
coat  of  the  Forty  were  Nadaud's  also.  With  the 
witty  Piron  he  could  not  ironically  anticipate  his 
own  epitaph  thus— 

"  Here  lies  Nadaud  who  was  nothing,  not  even 
an  Academician !  " 

Before  taking  leave  of  Carcassonne,  poetic  and 
picturesque,  the  most  inveterate  anti-sightseer 
should  peep  into  its  museum.  For  this  little 
chef-lieu  of  the  Aude,  with  a  population  under 
thirty  thousand,  possesses  what,  indeed,  hardly  a 


AN   IMMORTALIZER  149 

French  townling  lacks,  namely,  a  picture-gallery. 
If  not  remarkable  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
the  collection  serves  to  demonstrate  the  per- 
sistent, self-denying  and  constant  devotion  to 
culture  in  France.  Times  may  be  peaceful  or 
stormy,  seasons  may  prove  disastrous,  the 
withered,  thin  and  blasted  ears  of  corn  may 
devour  the  seven  ears  full  and  golden,  the  ship  of 
State  may  be  caught  in  a  tornado  and  lurch  alarm- 
ingly— all  the  same  "  the  man  in  the  street,"  "  the 
rascal  many,"  to  quote  Spenser,  will  have  a 
museum  in  which,  with  wife  and  hopefuls,  to 
spend  their  Sunday  afternoons.  The  local 
museum  is  no  less  of  a  necessity  to  Jacques 
Bonhomme  than  his  daily  pot-au-feu,  that  dish 
of  soup  which,  according  to  Michelet,  engenders 
the  national  amiability. 

The  splendid  public  library — the  determinative 
is  used  in  the  sense  of  comparison — numbers  just 
upon  a  volume  per  head,  and  the  art  school, 
school  of  music,  and  other  institutions  tell  the 
same  story.  Culture  throughout  the  country 
seems  indigenous,  to  spread  of  itself,  and,  above 
all  things,  to  reach  all  classes.  Culture  on 
French  soil  is  gratuitous,  ever  free  as  air !  We 
must  never  overlook  that  primary  fact. 

One  or  two  more  noticeable  facts  about  Carcas- 
sonne. Here  was  born  that  eccentric  revolu- 


150    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

tionary  and  poetic  genius,  Fabre  cT Eglantine,  of 
whom  I  have  written  elsewhere.1 

Yet  another  historic  note.  From  St.  Vincent's 
tower  during  the  Convention,  1792-5,  were  taken 
those  measurements,  the  outcome  of  which  was 
the  metric  system.  Two  mathematicians,  by  name 
Delambre  and  Mechain,  were  charged  with  the 
necessary  calculations,  the  metre,  or  a  ten-millionth 
part  of  the  distance  between  the  poles  and  the 
equator  (3*2808  English  feet),  being  made  the 
unit  of  length.  Uniformity  of  weight  followed, 
and  became  law  in  1799. 

But  to  touch  upon  historic  Carcassonne  is  to 
glance  upon  an  almost  interminable  perspective. 
The  chronicle  of  this  charming  little  city  on  the 
bright  blue  Aude  has  been  penned  and  re-penned 
in  blood  and  tears.  In  1560  Carcassonne,  suffered 
a  preliminary  Saint  Bartholomew,  a  general 
massacre  of  Protestants  announcing  the  evil  days 
to  follow ;  days  that  after  five  hundred  years  have 
left  their  trace,  moral  as  well  as  material. 

1  See  Literary  Rambles  in  France^  1906. 


VIII 
TOULOUSE 


TOULOUSE 

A  ZIGZAGGERY,  indeed,  was  this  journey  from 
Nimes  to  my  Pyrenean  valley.  That  metropolis 
of  art  and  most  heroic  town,  Montauban,  I  could 
not  on  any  account  miss.  Toulouse  necessarily 
had  to  be  taken  on  the  way  to  Ingres-ville,  as  I 
feel  inclined  to  call  the  great  painter's  birthplace 
and  apotheosis.  But  why  write  of  Toulouse? 
The  magnificent  city,  its  public  gardens, 
churches,  superbly  housed  museums  and  art 
galleries,  its  promenades,  drives  and  panoramas 
are  all  particularized  by  Murray,  Joanne  and 
Baedeker.  Here,  however,  as  elsewhere,  are  one 
or  two  features  which  do  not  come  within  the 
province  of  a  guide-book. 

The  only  city  throughout  France  that  welcomed 
the  Inquisition  was  among  the  first  to  open  a 
Lycee  pour  jeunes  filles.  In  accordance  with  the 
acts  of  1880-82  public  day  schools  for  girls  were 
opened  throughout  France;  that  of  Toulouse 
being  fairly  representative,  I  will  describe  my  visit. 

The  school  was  now  closed  for  the  long  vaca- 
tion, but  a  junior  mistress  in  temporary  charge 
gave  us  friendliest  welcome,  and  showed  us  over 

153 


154    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  building  and  annexes.  She  evidently  took 
immense  and  quite  natural  pride  in  the  little  world 
within  world  of  which  she  formed  a  part.  Her 
only  regret  was  that  we  could  not  see  the  scholars 
at  work.  Here  may  be  noted  the  wide  field 
thrown  open  to  educated  women  by  the  above- 
named  acts,  from  under-mistresses  to  Madame  la 
directrice,  the  position  being  one  of  dignity  and 
provision  for  life,  pensions  being  the  reward  of 
long  service. 

The  course  of  study  is  prepared  by  the  rector 
of  the  Toulousain  Academy,  and  the  rules  of 
management  by  the  municipal  council,  thus  the 
programme  of  instruction  bears  the  signature  of 
the  former,  whilst  the  prospectus,  dealing  with 
fees,  practical  details,  is  signed  by  the  mayor  in 
the  name  of  the  latter. 

We  find  a  decree  passed  by  the  town  council 
in  1887  to  the  effect  that  in  the  case  of  two  sisters 
a  fourth  of  the  sum-total  of  fees  should  be 
remitted,  of  three,  a  half,  of  four,  three-quarters, 
and  of  five,  the  entire  amount.  Even  the  outfit 
of  the  boarders  must  be  approved  by  the  same 
authority.  A  neat  costume  is  obligatory,  and  the 
number  and  material  of  undergarments  is  speci- 
fied with  the  utmost  minuteness.  Besides  a 
sufficient  quantity  of  suitable  clothes,  each 
student  must  bring  three  pairs  of  boots,  thirty 


TOULOUSE  155 


pocket-handkerchiefs,  a  bonnet-box,  umbrella, 
parasol,  and  so  forth. 

Such  regulations  may  at  first  sight  look  trivial 
and  unnecessary,  but  there  is  much  to  be  said  on 
the  other  side.  From  the  beginning  of  the  term 
to  the  end,  the  matron,  whose  province  is  quite 
apart  from  that  of  the  head-mistress,  is  never 
worried  about  the  pupils'  dress,  no  shoes  in  need 
of  repair,  no  garments  to  be  mended,  no  letters 
to  be  written  begging  Mme.  A.  to  send  her 
daughter  a  warm  petticoat,  Mme.  B.  to  forward 
a  hair-brush,  and  so  on.  Again,  the  uniform 
obligatory  on  boarders  prevents  those  petty 
jealousies  and  rivalries  provoked  by  fine  clothes 
in  girls'  schools.  Alike  the  child  of  the  million- 
aire and  of  the  small  official  wear  the  same  simple 
dress. 

Children  are  admitted  to  the  lower  school 
between  the  ages  of  five  and  twelve,  the  classes 
being  in  the  hands  of  certificated  mistresses.  The 
upper  school,  at  which  pupils  are  received  from 
twelve  years  and  upwards,  and  are  expected  to 
remain  five  years,  offers  a  complete  course  of 
study,  lady  teachers  being  aided  by  professors  of 
the  Faculte  des  Lettres  and  of  the  Lycee  for 
youths.  Students  who  have  remained  throughout 
the  entire  period,  and  have  satisfactorily  passed 
final  examinations,  receive  a  certificate  entitling 


156    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

them  to  admission  into  the  great  training  college 
of  Sevres  or  to  offer  themselves  as  teachers  in 
schools  and  families. 

The  curriculum  is  certainly  modest  compared 
with  that  obligatory  on  candidates  for  London 
University,  Girton  College,  or  our  senior  local 
examination;  but  it  is  an  enormous  improvement 
on  the  old  conventual  system,  and  several  points 
are  worthy  of  imitation.  Thus  a  girl  quitting  the 
Lycee  would  have  attained,  first  and  foremost,  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  her  own  language  and  its 
literature;  she  would  also  possess  a  fair  notion 
of  French  common  law,  of  domestic  economy, 
including  needlework  of  the  more  useful  kind, 
the  cutting  out  and  making  up  of  clothes,  and  the 
like.  Gymnastics  are  practised  daily.  In  the 
matter  of  religion  the  municipality  of  Toulouse 
shows  absolute  impartiality.  No  sectarian  teach- 
ing enters  into  the  programme,  but  Catholics  and 
Protestants  and  Jews  in  residence  can  receive 
instruction  from  their  respective  ministers. 

The  Lycee  competes  formidably  with  the  con- 
vents as  regards  fees.  Twenty-eight  pounds 
yearly  cover  the  expense  of  board,  education,  and 
medical  attendance  at  the  upper  school;  twenty- 
four  at  the  lower;  day  boarders  pay  from  twelve 
to  fifteen  pounds  a  year;  books,  the  use  of  the 
school  omnibus,  and  laundress  being  extras. 


TOULOUSE  157 


Three  hundred  scholars  in  all  attended  during 
the  scholastic  year  ending  July  1891. 

Day-pupils  not  using  the  school  omnibus  must 
be  accompanied  to  and  from  the  school,  and  here 
an  interesting  point  is  to  be  touched  upon.  In  so 
far  as  was  practicable,  the  Lycee  for  girls  has 
been  modelled  on  the  plan  of  the  time-honoured 
establishments  for  boys.  As  yet  a  uniform 
curriculum  to  begin  with  was  out  of  the  question ; 
the  programme  is  already  too  ambitious  in  the 
eyes  of  many,  whilst  ardent  advocates  of  the 
higher  education  of  women  in  France  regret  that 
the  vices  as  well  as  the  virtues  of  the  existing 
system  have  been  retained.  Educationists  and 
advanced  thinkers  generally  would  fain  see  a  less 
strait-laced  routine,  a  less  stringent  supervision, 
more  freedom  for  play  of  character.  The  Lycee 
student,  boy  or  girl,  youth  or  maiden,  is  as 
strictly  guarded  as  a  criminal ;  not  for  a  moment 
are  these  citizens  of  the  future  trusted  to  them- 
selves. 

In  the  vast  dormitory  of  the  high  school  here 
we  see  thirty  neat  compartments  with  partitions 
between,  containing  bed  and  toilet  requisites,  and 
at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room,  commanding  a 
view  of  the  rest,  is  the  bed  of  the  under-mistress 
in  charge,  surveillante  as  she  is  called.  Sleeping 
or  waking,  the  students  are  watched.  This 


158    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


massing  together  of  numbers  and  perpetual  super- 
vision no  longer  find  universal  favour. 

But  I  am  here  writing  of  fifteen  years  ago. 
Doubtless  were  I  to  repeat  my  visit  I  should  find 
progressive  changes  too  numerous  for  detail. 
Happy  little  middle-class  Parisians  now  run  to  and 
from  their  Lycees  unattended.  Young  ladies  in 
society  imitate  their  Anglo-Saxon  sisters  and  have 
shaken  off  that  incubus,  la  promeneuse  or  walking 
chaperon. 

Works  on  social  France,  as  is  the  case  with 
almanacs,  encyclopaedias  and  the  rest,  require 
yearly  revision.  Manners  and  customs  change 
no  less  quickly  than  headgear  and  skirts. 

Charles  Lamb  would  have  lived  ecstatically 
at  the  Languedocian  capital.  It  is  a  metropolis 
of  beggardom,  a  medicant's  Mecca,  a  citadel  of 
Jules  Richepin's  cherished  Gueux.  Here,  indeed, 
Elia  need  not  have  lamented  over  the  decay  of 
beggars,  "the  all  sweeping  besom  of  societarian 
reformation — your  only  modern  Alcides'  club  to 
rid  time  of  its  abuses — is  uplift  with  many-handed 
sway  to  extirpate  the  last  fluttering  tatters  of  the 
bugbear  Mendicity.  Scrips,  wallets,  bags,  staves, 
dogs  and  crutches,  the  whole  mendicant  fraternity 
with  all  their  baggage  are  fast  hasting  out  of  the 
purlieus  of  this  eleventh  persecution." 

No,  here  is  what  the  best  beloved  of  English 


TOULOUSE  159 


humorists  calls  "  the  oldest  and  the  honourablest 
form  of  pauperism,"  here  his  vision  would  have 
feasted  on  "Rags,  the  Beggars'  robes  and 
graceful  insignia  of  his  profession,  his  tenure,  his 
full  dress,  the  suit  in  which  he  is  expected  to 
show  himself  in  public."  "  He  is  never  out  of 
fashion,"  adds  Lamb,  "or  limpeth  outwardly 
behind  it.  He  is  not  required  to  wear  court 
mourning.  He  weareth  all  colours,  fearing  none. 
His  costume  hath  undergone  less  change  than  the 
Quaker's.  He  is  the  only  man  in  the  universe 
who  is  not  obliged  to  study  appearances." 

Here,  too,  would  the  unmatchable  writer  have 
gazed  upon  more  than  one  "grand  fragment,  as 
good  as  an  Elgin  marble"  And  alas !  many 
deformities  more  terrible  still,  and  which,  perhaps, 
would  have  damped  even  Lamb's  ardour.  For 
in  the  Toulouse  of  1894,  as  in  the  London  of 
sixty  years  before,  its  mendicants  "  were  so  many 
of  its  sights,  its  Lions."  The  city  literally 
swarmed  with  beggars.  At  every  turn  we  came 
upon  some  living  torso,  distorted  limb  and  hide- 
ous sore.  Begging  seemed  to  be  the  accepted 
livelihood  of  cripples,  blind  folk  and  the  infirm. 
Let  us  hope  that  by  this  time  something  better 
has  been  devised  for  them  all.  Was  it  here  that 
Richepin  partly  studied  the  mendicant  fraternity, 
giving  us  in  poetry  his  astounding  appreciation, 


160    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

psychological  and  linguistic?  And  perhaps  the 
bard  of  the  beggars,  like  the  English  humorist, 
would  wish  his  pauvres  Gueux  to  be  left 
unmolested. 

The  sights  of  Toulouse  would  occupy  a  con- 
scientious traveller  many  days.  The  least 
leisurely  should  find  time  to  visit  the  tiny  square 
called  -place  du  Salin.  Here  took  place  the 
innumerable  autos-da-fe  of  the  Toulousain 
Inquisition,  and  here,  so  late  as  1618,  the  cele- 
brated physician  and  scientist  Vanini  was 
atrociously  done  to  death  by  that  truly  infernal 
tribunal,  and  for  what?  For  simply  differing 
from  the  obscurantism  of  his  age,  and  having 
opinions  of  his  own. 

The  atrocious  sentence  passed  on  Vanini  was 
in  part  remitted,  evidently  public  opinion  already 
making  itself  felt.  His  tongue  was  cut  out,  but 
strangulation  preceded  the  burning  alive.  Here 
one  cannot  help  noting  the  illogical,  the  puerile— 
if  such  words  are  applicable  to  devilish  wicked- 
ness— aspect  of  such  Inquisitorial  sentences.  If 
these  hounders-down  of  common-sense  and  the 
reasoning  faculty  really  believed,  as  they  affected 
to  believe,  that  men  who  possessed  and  exercised 
both  qualities  were  thereby  doomed  to  eternal 
torments,  why  set  up  the  horrible  and  costly 
paraphernalia  of  the  Inquisition?  After  all,  no 


TOULOUSE  161 


matter  how  ingeniously  inventive  might  be  their 
persecutors,  they  could  only  be  made  to  endure 
terminable  and  comparatively  insignificant  tor- 
ments, not  a  millionth  millionth  fraction  of 
eternity ! 

Refreshing  it  is  to  turn  to  the  Toulouse  of 
minstrelsy.  The  proud  seat  of  the  troubadours, 
the  Academy  of  the  Gay  Science  and  of  the 
poetic  tourneys  revived  in  our  own  day  !  Mistral's 
name  has  long  been  European,  and  other  English 
writers  have  charmingly  described  the  Feux 
Floraux  of  the  olden  time  and  the  society  of 
Lou  Felibrige  with  its  revival  of  Provencal  liter- 
ature. But  forty  years  ago,  and  twenty  years 
before  his  masterpiece  had  found  a  translator 
here,  he  was  known  and  highly  esteemed  by  a 
great  Englishman. 

In  Mill's  Correspondence  (1910)  we  find  a 
beautiful  letter,  and  written  in  fine  stately  French, 
from  the  philosopher  to  the  poet,  dated  Avignon, 
October  1869. 

Mill  had  sent  Mistral  the  French  translation  of 
his  essay,  "The  Subjection  of  Women,"  and  in 
answer  to  the  other's  thanks  and  flattering  assur- 
ance of  his  own  conversion,  he  wrote  :  "  Parmi 
toutes  les  adhesions  qui  ont  etc  'donnees  a  la 
these  de  mon  petit  livre,  je  ne  sais  s'il  y  en  a 
aucune  qui  m'ont  fait  plus  de  plaisir  que  la  votre." 

M 


162     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

The  letter  as  a  whole  is  most  interesting,  and 
ends  with  a  characterization,  a  strikingly  beau- 
tiful passage  in  the  life  and  teaching  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Hard  were  it  to  match  this  appreciation 
among  orthodox  writers. 

So  transparent  is  the  atmosphere  here  that  the 
Pyrenees  appear  within  an  hour's  ride  :  they  are 
in  reality  sixty  miles  off !  Lovely  are  the  clearly 
outlined  forms,  flecked  with  light  and  shadow, 
the  snowy  patches  being  perfectly  distinct. 


IX 

MONTAUBAN,   OR   INGRES-VILLE 


M  2 


MONTAUBAN,   OR   INGRES-VILLE 

AN  hour  by  rail  from  Toulouse  lies  the  ancient 
city  of  Montauban,  as  far  as  I  know  unnoticed  by 
English  tourists  since  Arthur  Young's  time.  This 
superbly  placed  chef-lieu  of  the  Tarn  and 
Garonne  is  alike  an  artistic  shrine  and  a  palladium 
of  religious  liberty.  Here  was  born  that  strongly 
individualized  and  much  contested  genius,  Domi- 
nique Ingres,  and  here  Protestantism  withstood 
the  League,  De  Luyne's  besieging  army  and  the 
dragonnades  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  city  of  Ingres  may  be  thought  of  by  itself; 
there  is  plenty  of  food  for  reflection  here  without 
recalling  the  prude  whose  virtue  caused  more 
mischief  than  the  vices  of  all  the  Montespans  and 
Dubarrys  put  together.  Let  us  forget  the 
Maintenon  terror  at  Montauban,  the  breaking  up 
of  families,  the  sending  to  the  galleys  of  good 
men  and  women,  the  torturings,  the  roastings 
alive,  and  turn  to  the  delightful  and  soothing 
souvenirs  of  genius !  Every  French  town  that 
has  given  birth  to  shining  talent  is  straightway 
turned  into  a  Walhalla.  This  ancient  town,  so 

strikingly  placed,  breathes  of  Ingres,  attracts  the 

165 


166    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

traveller  by  the  magic  of  the  painter's  name,  has 
become  an  art  pilgrimage.  The  noble  monument 
erected  by  the  townsfolk  to  their  great  citizen  and 
the  picture-gallery  he  bequeathed  his  native  city 
well  repay  a  much  longer  journey  than  that  from 
Toulouse.  We  see  here  to  what  high  levels 
public  spirit  and  local  munificence  can  rise  in 
France.  We  see  also  how  close,  after  all,  are 
the  ties  that  knit  Frenchman  and  Frenchman, 
how  the  glory  of  one  is  made  the  pride  of  all. 
The  bronze  statue  of  the  painter,  with  the  vast 
and  costly  bas-relief  imitating  his  "  Apotheosis  of 
Homer  "  in  the  Louvre,  stand  in  the  public  walk, 
the  beauty  of  which  aroused  even  Arthur  Young's 
enthusiasm.  '  The  promenade,"  he  wrote  in  June 
1787,  "is  finely  situated.  Built  on  the  highest 
part  of  the  rampart,  and  commanding  that  noble 
vale,  or  rather  plain,  one  of  the  richest  in  Europe, 
which  extends  on  one  side  to  the  sea  and  in  front 
to  the  Pyrenees,  whose  towering  masses  heaped 
one  upon  another  in  a  stupendous  manner,  and 
covered  with  snow,  offer  a  variety  of  lights  and 
shades  from  indented  forms  and  the  immensity 
of  their  projections.  This  prospect,  which  con- 
tains a  semicircle  of  a  hundred  miles  in  diameter, 
has  an  oceanic  vastness  in  which  the  eye  loses 
itself;  an  almost  boundless  scene  of  cultivation; 
an  animated  but  confused  mass  of  infinitely  varied 


MONTAUBAN,   OR   INGRES-VILLE     167 

parts,  melting  gradually  into  the  distant  obscure, 
from  which  emerges  the  amazing  frame  of  the 
Pyrenees,  rearing  their  silvered  heads  above  the 
clouds." 

The  Ingres  Museum  contains,  I  should  say, 
more  works  from  the  hand  of  a  single  master  than 
were  ever  before  collected  under  the  same  roof. 
Upwards  of  a  thousand  sketches,  many  of  great, 
power  and  beauty,  are  here,  besides  several 
portraits  and  one  masterpiece,  the  Christ  in  the 
Temple,  brilliant  as  a  canvas  of  Holman  Hunt, 
although  the  work  of  an  octogenarian.  The 
painter's  easel,  palette,  and  brushes,  his  violin,  the 
golden  laurel-wreath  presented  to  him  by  his  native 
town,  and  other  relics  are  reverently  gazed  at 
on  Sundays  by  artisans,  soldiers  and  peasant-folk. 
The  local  museum  in  France  is  something  more 
than  a  little  centre  of  culture,  a  place  in  which  to 
breathe  beauty  and  delight.  It  is  a  school  of  the 
moral  sense,  of  the  nobler  passions,  and  also  a 
temple  of  fame.  Therein  the  young  are  taught 
to  revere  excellence,  and  here  the  ambitious  are 
stimulated  by  worthy  achievement. 

Ingres-ville  recalls  an  existence  stormy  as  the 
history  of  Montauban  itself.  This  stronghold 
of  reform  throughout  her  vicissitudes  did  not 
show  a  bolder,  more  determined  front  to  the  foe 
than  did  her  great  citizen  his  own  enemies  and 


168    IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

detractors.  Dominique  Ingres  and  his  life-story 
favour  those  physicists  who  discern  in  native  soil 
and  surroundings  the  formative  influences  of 
aptitudes  and  character.  The  man  and  his  birth- 
place matched  each  other.  Indomitableness  char- 
acterized both,  and  to  understand  both  we  must 
know  something  of  their  respective  histories.  To 
Montauban  Henri  Martin's  great  history  does 
ample  justice,  to  her  illustrious  son  contemporary 
writers  have  recently  paid  worthy  tributes.1 

"When  a  writer  is  praised  above  his  merits  in 
his  own  times,"  wrote  Savage  Landor,  "he  is 
certain  of  being  estimated  below  them  in  the 
times  succeeding."  In  the  case  of  Ingres,  opposi- 
tion and  contumely  were  followed  by  perhaps 
excessive  laudation  whilst  he  lived,  after  his  death 
ensuing  a  long  period  of  reaction.  Time  has  now 
set  the  seal  upon  his  fame.  The  great  Montal- 
banais  has  been  finally  received  into  the  national 
Walhalla. 

The  father  of  the  so-called  French  Raphael, 
writes  his  biographer,  was  not  even  a  Giovanni 
Santi.  Joseph  Ingres,  in  the  words  of  M,  Mom- 
meja,  was  un  petit  ornemaniste,  a  fabricator  of 
knick-knacks,  turning  out  models  in  clay,  busts  in 

1  See  Les  Grands  Artistes — Ingres^  par  J.  Momme'ja,  Paris, 
Laurens;  Lc  Roman  d' amour  de  M.  Ingres,  par  H.  Lapauze, 
Paris,  Lafitte,  1911. 


MONTAUBAN,   OR  INGRES-VILLE     169 

plaster,  miniatures  and  other  trifles  for  sale  at 
country  fairs.  Who  can  say,  this  humble  crafts- 
man may  yet  have  had  much  to  do  with  his  son's 
aspirations  ? 

An  inferior  artist  can  appraise  his  masters. 
From  the  humble  artificer  and  purveyor  of 
bagatelles  the  youth  not  only  imbibed  a  passion 
for  art  and  technical  knowledge  :  he  inherited  the 
next  best  thing  to  a  calling,  in  other  words,  a 
love  of  music.  From  the  palette  throughout  his 
long  life  Ingres  would  turn  with  never-abated 
enthusiasm  to  his  adored  violin. 

The  learned  monograph  above-named  gives  a 
succinct  and  judicial  account  of  the  painter's 
career.  The  second  writer  mentioned  tells  the 
story  of  his  inner  life;  one,  indeed,  of  perpetual 
and  universal  interest. 

For  to  this  sturdy  young  bourgeois  early  came 
a  crisis.  He  found  himself  suddenly  at  the  part- 
ing of  the  ways,  on  the  one  hand  beckoning 
Conscience,  on  the  other  ambition  in  the  flattering 
shape  of  Destiny.  To  which  voice  would  he 
hearken?  Would  love  and  plighted  troth  over- 
rule that  insistent  siren  song,  Vocation?  Would 
he  yield,  as  have  done  thousands  of  well- 
intentioned  men  and  women  before  him,  to  self- 
interest  and  worldly  wisdom?  The  problem  to 
be  solved  by  this  brilliantly  endowed  artist  just 


170    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

twenty-six — how  many  a  historic  parallel  does  it 
recall !  What  three  words  can  convey  so  much 
pathos,  heroism  and  generosity  as  "  il  gran 
riffiuto  ? " — the  great  renunciation.  Does  the 
French  language  contain  a  more  touching  record 
than  that  of  the  great  Navarre's  farewell  to  his 
Huguenot  brethren?  What  bitter  tears  shed 
Jeanne  d'Albret's  son  ere  he  could  bring  himself 
to  sacrifice  conscience  on  the  altar  of  expediency 
and  a  great  career ! 

At  the  age  of  twenty  we  find  Dominique  Ingres 
studying  in  Paris  under  David,  then  in  his 
apogee. 

The  son  of  an  obscure  provincial,  however 
promising,  would  hardly  be  overwhelmed  with 
hospitalities;  all  the  more  welcome  came  the 
friendliness  of  an  honourable  magistrate  and  his 
wife,  by  name  Forestier.  During  five  years  the 
young  man  had  lived  on  terms  of  closest  intimacy 
with  these  good  folks,  under  his  eyes  growing  up 
their  only  daughter. 

Alas !  poor  Julie.  Mighty,  says  Goethe,  is 
the  god  of  propinquity.  On  Dominique's  part 
attachment  seems  to  have  come  insensibly,  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  despite  the  precariousness  of 
his  position.  M.  Forestier  encouraged  the  young 
man's  advances.  To  Julie  love  for  the  brilliant 
winner  of  the  Prix  de  Rome  became  an  absorp- 


MONTAUBAN,   OR  INGRES-VILLE     171 

tion,  her  very  life.  Not  particularly  endowed  by 
Nature — we  have  her  portrait  in  M.  Mommeja's 
volume — she  described  her  own  physiognomy  as 
"  not  at  all  remarkable,  but  expressive  of  candour 
and  goodness  of  heart."  For  Julie,  as  we  shall 
see,  turned  her  love-story  into  a  little  novel,  only 
unearthed  the  other  day  by  M.  Lapauze. 

The  Prix  de  Rome  meant,  of  course,  a  call  to 
Rome,  the  worthy  magistrate  exacting  from  his 
prospective  son-in-law  a  promise  that  in  twelve 
months'  time  he  would  return.  During  that 
interval  correspondence  went  on  apace  not  only 
between  the  affianced  lovers,  but  between  M. 
Forestier  and  Ingres,  the  former  taking  affec- 
tionate and  not  uncritical  interest  in  the  other's 
projects.  For  Ingres  was  before  all  things  a 
projector,  anticipating  by  decades  the  achieve- 
ments of  his  later  years.  The  glow  of  enthusiasm, 
the  fever  of  creativeness  were  at  its  height.  Italy 
possessed  Ingres'  entire  being  when  the  crisis 
came. 

After  delays,  excuses,  pleadings,  Julie's  father 
lost  patience.  He  would  brook  no  further 
tergiversations.  Ingres  must  choose  between  Italy 
and  Paris;  in  other  words,  so  the  artist  interpreted 
it,  between  art  and  marriage,  a  proud  destiny  or 
self-extinction. 

Never  had  a   young   artist    more   completely 


172    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

fallen  under  the  spell  of  Italy.  The  recall  seemed 
a  death-blow.  "  On  my  knees,"  he  wrote  to  Julie, 
whom  he  really  loved,  "  I  implore  you  not  to  ask 
this.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  quit  immediately 
a  land  so  full  of  marvel." 

But  the  practical  M.  Forestier  would  not  give 
way.  Ingres'  persistence  looked  like  folly,  even 
madness  in  his  eyes.  The  young  man  was  with 
difficulty  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  portraits  and 
small  orders  barely  keeping  the  wolf  from  the 
door.  The  return  home  and  marriage  would 
ensure  his  future  materially  and  socially,  and  up 
to  a  certain  point  render  him  independent  of 
malevolent  criticism.  For  already  Ingres  was 
fiercely  attacked  by  Parisian  authorities  on  art: 
he  had  become  important  enough  to  be  a  target. 
After  cruellest  heart-searching  and  prolonged 
self-reproach,  il  gran  riffiuto  was  made,  youthful 
passion,  worldly  advantages — and  plighted  faith 
— were  cast  to  the  winds.  Henceforth  he  would 
live  for  his  palette  only,  defying  poverty,  detrac- 
tion and  fiercely  antagonistic  opinion;  if  failing 
in  allegiance  to  others,  at  least  remaining  staunch 
to  his  first,  best,  highest  self,  his  genius. 

Julie,  the  third  imperishable  Julie  of  French 
romance,  never  married.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
writing  of  her  artless  little  autobiography  called 
a  novel  brought  consolation.  Did  she  ever 


MONTAUBAN,   OR   INGRES-VILLE     173 

forgive  the  recalcitrant?  Her  story,  Emma,  ou  la 
fiancee,  ends  with  the  aphorism :  "  Without  the 
scrupulous  fulfilment  of  the  given  word,  there 
can  be  neither  happiness  nor  inner  peace." 

Did  that  backsliding  in  early  life  disturb  the 
great  painter's  stormy  but  dazzling  career  ?  Who 
can  say?  We  learn  that  Ingres  was  twice,  and, 
according  to  accredited  reports,  happily,  married. 
His  first  wife,  a  humbly-born  maiden  from  his 
native  province,  died  in  1849,  leaving  the 
septuagenarian  so  desolate,  helpless  and  stricken 
that  kindly  interveners  set  to  work  and  re-married 
him.  The  second  Mme.  Ingres,  although  thirty 
years  his  junior,  gave  him,  his  biographer  tells  us, 
"  that  domestic  peace  and  happiness  of  which  for 
a  brief  space  he  had  been  deprived."  Heaped 
with  honours,  named  by  Napoleon  III.  Grand 
Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  Senator, 
Member  of  the  Institut,  Ingres  died  in  1869. 
Within  a  year  of  ninety,  he  was  Dominique  Ingres 
to  the  last,  undertaking  new  works  with  the 
enthusiasm  and  vitality  of  Titian.  A  few  days 
before  his  death  he  gave  a  musical  party,  favourite 
works  of  Haydn,  Mozart  and  Beethoven  being 
performed  by  skilled  amateurs.  His  funeral  was 
a  veritable  apotheosis,  disciples,  admirers  and 
detractors  swelling  the  enormous  cortege. 

Those  who,  like  myself,  have  times  without 


174    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

number  contemplated  the  master's  opus  magnum 
in  the  Louvre,  and  have  studied  his  art  as  repre- 
sented in  the  provincial  museums,  will  quit  the 
Musee  Ingres  with  mixed  feelings.  It  must  occur 
to  many  that,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  gran  nffiuto  of 
opposite  kind  might  have  better  served  art  and 
the  artist's  fame.  Had  he  returned  to  France— 
and  to  Julie — at  the  stipulated  period,  the  follow- 
ing eighteen  years  being  spent  not  on  Italian  but 
on  native  soil,  how  different  the  result !  Then  of 
his  work  he  could  have  said,  as  did  Chantecler 
of  his  song — 

"Mon  chant 

Qui  n'est  pas  de  ces  chants  qu'on  chante  en  cherchant 
Mais  qu'on  regoit  du  sol  natal  corame  une  sdve." 

Would  not  most  of  us  willingly  give  Ingres' 
greatest  classical  and  historic  canvases  for  one  or 
two  portraits,  say  that  of  Bertin,  or,  better  still, 
for  a  group  like  that  of  the  Stamiti  family  ? l 
What  a  portrait  gallery  he  would  have  bequeathed, 
how  would  he  have  made  the  men  and  women  of 
his  time  live  again  before  us ! 

Ingres,  the  artist,  ever  felt  sure  of  himself.  Did 
the  lover  look  back,  regretting  the  broken  word, 
the  wrong  done  to  another?  We  do  not  know. 
His  life  was  throughout  upright,  austere,  free 

1  Both  are  reproduced,  with  many  other  works,  in  M.  Mom- 
meja's  volume. 


MONTAUBAN,   OR   INGRES-VILLE     175 

from  blot;  born  and  bred  a  Catholic,  he  had 
doubtless  Huguenot  blood  in  his  veins,  many  of 
his  most  striking  characteristics  pointed  to  this 
inference. 

A  word  more  concerning  Montauban  itself. 
The  stronghold  of  reform,  that  defied  all  Riche- 
lieu's attempts  to  take  it,  is  to  this  day  essentially 
a  Protestant  town.  Half  of  its  inhabitants  have 
remained  faithful  to  the  faith  of  their  ancestors. 
Tourists  will  note  the  abundance  of  cypress  trees 
marking  Huguenot  graves,  the  capital  of  Tarn 
and  Garonne  is  a  veritable  Calvinistic  Campo 
Santo.  After  the  Revocation,  many  families  fled 
hence  to  England,  their  descendants  to  this  day 
loving  and  reverencing  the  country  which  gave 
them  a  home. 

Montauban,  as  we  should  expect,  has  raised  a 
splendid  monument  to  its  one  great  citizen. 

Since  writing  these  lines,  an  Ingres  exhibition 
has  been  opened  in  the  Georges  Petit  Gallery, 
Paris.  Apropos  of  this  event,  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  (May  15,  1911)  contains  a  striking 
paper  by  the  art-critic,  M.  de  Sizeraine.  Some 
of  the  conclusions  here  arrived  at  are  startling. 
Certain  authorities  on  art  are  said  to  regard  the 
great  Montalbanais  as  a  victim  of  daltonism — in 
other  words,  colour-blind ! 

In  company  of  the  mere  amateur,  this  authority 


176    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

turns  with  relief  from  the  master's  historical  and 
allegorical  pieces  to  his  wonderfully  Speaking 
portraits.  Here,  he  says,  all  is  simple,  nothing  is 
commonplace,  nothing  is  unexpected,  and  yet 
nothing  resembles  what  we  have  seen  elsewhere; 
we  find  no  embellishment,  no  stultification.  He 
adds :  "  In  art,  as  in  literature,  works  which 
survive  are  perhaps  those  in  which  the  artist  or 
writer  has  put  the  most  of  himself,  not  those  in 
which  he  has  had  most  faith.  The  "Vceu  de 
Louis  XIII.,"  the  "Thetis"  of  Ingres,  we  may 
compare  to  Voltaire's  Henriade  and  to  the 
Franciade  of  Ronsard,  all  belong  to  the  category 
of  the  opus  magnum  that  has  failed,  and  of  which 
its  creator  is  proud."  With  the  following  charm- 
ing simile  the  essay  closes — 

"  Posterity  is  a  great  lady,  she  passes,  reviews 
the  opus  magnum,  la  grande  machine  disdain- 
fully, satirically;  all  seems  lost,  the  artist  con- 
demned. But  by  chance  she  catches  sight  of  a 
neglected  picture  turned  to  the  wall  in  a  corner  or 
passage,  some  happy  inspiration  that  has  cost  its 
author  little  pains,  but  in  which  he  has  not  striven 
beyond  his  powers,  and  in  which  he  has  put  the 
best  of  himself.  The  grande  dame  catches  it  up, 
holds  it  to  the  light.  'Ha!  here  is  something 
pretty ! '  she  cries.  And  the  artist's  fame  is 
assured." 


MONTAUBAN,   OR  INGRES-VILLE     177 

Has  not  Victor  Hugo  focused  the  same  truth 
in  a  line — 

"  Ici-bas,  le  joli  c'est  le  n<£cessaire ! " 
And  our  own  Keats  also— 

"  For  'tis  the  eternal  law, 
That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might." 


X 

MY   PYRENEAN    VALLEY   AT   LAST 


N  2 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST 

OSSE,  la  bien  aime'e 

Toi,  du  vallon 
Le  choix,  la  fille  aine'e 

Le  vrai  fleuron ! 
C'est  sur  toi  qu'est  fixde 

Dans  son  amour, 
La  premiere  pense'e 

Du  roi  du  jour 
Comme  a  sa  fiancee 

L'amant  ac  court. 

XAVIER  NAVARROT. 

BETWEEN  Toulouse  and  Tarbes  the  scenery  is 
quite  unlike  that  of  the  Card  and  the  Aude. 
Instead  of  the  interminable  vineyards  round 
about  Aigues-Mortes  and  Carcassonne,  we  gaze 
here  upon  a  varied  landscape. 

Following  the  Garonne  with  the  refrain  of 
Nadaud's  famous  song  in  our  minds — 

"Si  la  Garonne  avait  voulu," — 

we  traverse  a  vast  plain  or  low  vale  rich  in  many- 
coloured  crops :  buckwheat,  sweeps  of  creamy 
blossom,  dark-green  rye,  bluish-green  Indian  corn 
with  silvery  flower-head,  and  purple  clover,  and 
here  and  there  a  patch  of  vine  are  mingled 
together  before  us;  in  the  far  distance  the 

181 


182    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Pyrenees,  as  yet  mere  purple  clouds  against  the 
horizon. 

We  soon  note  a  peculiarity  of  this  region — 
vines  trained  to  trees,  a  method  in  vogue  a 
hundred  years  ago.  "  Here,"  wrote  Arthur 
Young,  when  riding  from  Toulouse  to  St. 
Martory  on  his  way  to  Luchon,  "  for  the  first  time 
I  see  rows  of  maples  with  vines  trained  in  festoons 
from  tree  to  tree";  and  farther  on  he  adds, 
"  medlars,  plums,  cherries,  maples  in  every  hedge 
with  vines  trained."  The  straggling  vine-branches 
have  a  curious  effect,  but  the  brightness  of  the 
leafage  is  pleasant  to  the  eye.  No  matter  how  it 
grows,  to  my  thinking  the  vine  is  a  lovely  thing. 

The  rich  plain  passed,  we  reach  the  slopes  of 
the  Pyrenees,  their  wooded  sides  presenting  a 
strange,  even  grotesque,  appearance,  owing  to  the 
mathematical  regularity  with  which  the  woods  are 
cut,  portions  being  close  shaven,  others  left  intact 
in  close  juxtaposition,  solid  phalanxes  of  trees 
and  clearings  at  right  angles.  The  fancy  conjures 
up  a  Brobdingnagian  wheat-field  partially  cut  in 
the  green  stage.  Sad  havoc  is  thus  made  of  once 
beautiful  scenes,  richly-wooded  slopes  having  lost 
half  their  foliage. 

A  hundred  years  ago  Lourdes  was  a  mere 
mountain  fortress,  a  State  prison  to  which  unhappy 
persons  were  consigned  by  lettres  de  cachet. 
Apologists  of  the  Ancien  Regime  assert,  in  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     183 

first  place,  that  these  Bastilles  were  comfortable, 
even  luxurious  retreats ;  in  the  second,  that  lettres 
de  cachet  were  useful  and  necessary;  in  the  third, 
that  neither  Bastilles  nor  lettres  de  cachet  were 
esorted  to  on  the  eve  of  the  Revolution.  Let  us 
hear  what  Arthur  Young  has  to  say  on  the  subject. 
"  I  take  the  road  to  Lourdes,"  he  writes  in  August 
1787,  "where  is  a  castle  on  a  rock,  garrisoned  for 
the  mere  purpose  of  keeping  State  prisoners,  sent 
hither  by  lettres  de  cachet.  Seven  or  eight  are 
known  to  be  here  at  present ;  thirty  have  been  here 
at  a  time;  and  many  for  life — torn  by  the  relent- 
less hand  of  jealous  tyranny  from  the  bosom  of 
domestic  comfort,  from  wives,  children,  friends, 
and  hurried,  for  crimes  unknown  to  themselves, 
most  probably  for  virtues,  to  languish  in  this 
detested  abode,  and  die  of  despair.  Oh  liberty, 
liberty !  " 

Great  is  the  contrast  between  the  lovely 
entourage  of  this  notorious  place  and  the  triviality 
and  vulgar  nature  of  its  commerce.  The  one 
long,  winding  street  may  be  described  as  a  vast 
bazaar,  more  suited  to  Chaucer's  Canterbury 
Pilgrims  than  to  holders  of  railway  tickets  and 
contemporaries  of  the  Eiffel  Tower. 

A  brisk  trade  is  done  here,  the  place  wearing 
the  aspect  of  a  huge  fair.  Rosaries,  crosses, 
votive  tablets,  ornamental  cans  for  holding  the 
miraculous  waters,  drinking-cups,  candles,  photo- 


184    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

graphs,  images,  medals  are  sold  by  millions.  The 
traffic  in  these  wares  goes  on  all  day  long,  the 
poorest  "  pilgrim  "  taking  away  souvenirs. 

The  Lourdes  of  theology  begins  where  the 
Lourdes  of  bartering  ends.  As  we  quit  the  long 
street  of  bazaars  and  brand-new  hotels,  the  first 
glimpse  gives  us  an  insight  into  its  life  and  mean- 
ing, makes  us  feel  that  we  ought  to  have  been 
living  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago.  We  glance 
back  at  the  railway  station,  wondering  whether  a 
halt  were  wise,  whether  indeed  the  gibbet,  wheel, 
and  stake  were  not  really  prepared  for  heretics 
like  ourselves ! 

The  votive  church  built  on  the  outer  side  of  the 
rock  from  which  flows  the  miraculous  fountain  is  a 
basilica  of  sumptuous  proportions,  representing 
an  outlay  of  many  millions  of  francs.  Its  portico, 
with  horse-shoe  staircase  in  marble,  spans  the 
opening  of  the  green  hills,  behind  which  lie  grotto 
and  spring.  We  are  reminded  of  the  enormous 
church  now  crowning  the  height  of  Montmartre  at 
Paris ;  here,  as  there  and  at  Chartres,  is  a  complete 
underground  church  of  vast  proportions.  The 
whole  structure  is  very  handsome,  the  grey  and 
white  building-stone  standing  out  against  verdant 
hills  and  dark  rocks.  A  beautifully  laid-out  little 
garden  with  a  statue  of  the  miracle-working 
Virgin  lies  between  church  and  town. 

Looking  from  the  lofty  platform  on  the  other 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     185 

side  of  the  upper  church,  we  behold  a  strange 
scene.  The  space  below  is  black  with  people, 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  pilgrims,  so  called, 
priests  and  nuns  being  in  full  force,  one  and  all 
shouting  and  gesticulating  with  fierce  zealotry,  a 
priest  or  two  holding  forth  from  a  temporary 
pulpit. 

Between  these  closely-serried  masses  is  a 
ghastly  array.  On  litters,  stretchers,  beds,  chairs, 
lie  the  deformed,  the  sick,  the  moribund,  awaiting 
their  turn  to  be  sprinkled  with  the  miraculous 
waters  or  blessed  by  the  bishop.  These  poor 
people,  many  of  whom  are  in  the  last  stage  of 
illness,  have  for  bearers,  volunteers;  these  are 
priests,  young  gentlemen  of  good  family,  and 
others,  who  wear  badges  and  leather  traces,  by 
which  they  attach  themselves  to  their  burden. 

All  day  long  masses  are  held  inside  the  church 
and  in  the  open  air;  at  a  given  signal  the  con- 
gregation stretching  out  their  arms  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  prostrating  themselves  on  the  ground, 
kissing  the  dust. 

We  must  descend  the  broad  flight  of  steps  in 
order  to  obtain  a  good  view  of  the  grotto,  an  oval 
opening  in  the  rocks  made  to  look  like  a  stalactite 
cave,  with  scores  and  hundreds  of  ex-votos  in  the 
shape  of  crutches.  Judging  from  this  display, 
there  should  be  no  more  lame  folks  left  in  France. 
The  Virgin  of  Lourdes  must  have  healed  them 


186    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

all.  In  a  niche  of  the  grotto  stands  an  image  of 
the  Virgin,  and  behind,  perpetually  lighted  with 
candles,  an  altar,  at  which  mass  is  celebrated 
several  times  daily. 

On  one  side,  the  rock  has  been  pierced  in 
several  places,  deliciously  pure,  cool  water 
issuing  from  the  taps.  Crowds  are  always 
collected  here,  impatient  to  drink  of  the  miracu- 
lous fountain,  and  to  fill  vessels  for  use  at  home. 
We  see  tired,  heated  invalids,  and  apparently 
dying  persons,  drinking  cups  of  this  ice-cold 
water;  enough,  one  would  think,  to  kill  them 
outright.  Close  by  is  a  little  shop  full  of  trifles 
for  sale,  but  so  thronged  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
that  you  cannot  get  attended  to;  purchasers  lay 
down  their  money,  take  up  the  object  desired,  and 
walk  away.  Here  may  be  bought  a  medal  for 
two  sous,  or  a  crucifix  priced  at  several  hundred 
francs. 

The  praying,  chanting,  and  prostrating  are  at 
their  height  when  the  violet-robed  figure  of  a 
bishop  is  caught  sight  of,  tripping  down  a  side- 
path  leading  from  the  town.  Blessing  any  who 
chance  to  meet  him  on  the  way,  chatting  pleasantly 
with  his  companion,  a  portly  gentleman  wearing 
the  red  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  the 
bishop  hastens  towards  the  grotto,  dons  his  sacer- 
dotal robes  of  ivory-white  and  gold,  and  cele- 
brates mass.  The  ceremony  over,  there  is  a 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  187 

general  stir.  Adjusting  their  harness,  the  bearers 
form  a  procession,  the  bishop  emerges  from  the 
grotto,  and  one  by  one  the  thirty  and  odd  litters 
are  drawn  before  him  to  be  sprinkled,  blessed — 
and  healed !  alas,  such,  doubtless,  is  the  fond 
delusion  of  many. 

The  sight  of  so  many  human  wrecks,  torsos  and 
living  skeletons  all  agog  for  life,  health,  and 
restoration,  is  even  less  heart-breaking  than  that 
of  their  companions.  Here  we  see  a  mother 
bending  with  agonized  looks  over  some  white- 
faced,  wasted  boy,  whose  days,  even  hours,  are 
clearly  numbered ;  there  a  father  of  a  wizen-faced, 
terribly  deformed  girl,  a  mite  to  look  at,  but  fast 
approaching  womanhood,  brought  hither  to  be 
put  straight  and  beautiful.  Next  our  eye  lights 
on  the  emaciated  form  of  a  young  man  evidently 
in  the  last  stage  of  consumption,  his  own  face 
hopeful  still,  but  what  forlornness  in  that  of  the 
adoring  sister  by  his  side !  These  are  spectacles 
to  make  the  least  susceptible  weep.  Grotesque 
is  the  sight  of  a  priest  who  must  be  ninety  at 
least;  what  further  miracle  can  he  expect,  having 
already  lived  the  life  of  three  generations? 

The  last  litter  drawn  by,  the  enormous  crowd 
breaks  up ;  tall  candles  are  offered  to  those  stand- 
ing near,  and  a  procession  is  formed,  headed  by 
the  bishop  under  his  gold  and  white  baldachin, 
a  large  number  of  priests  following  behind,  then 


188    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

several  hundred  men,  women,  and  children,  the 
black  and  white  robes  of  the  priests  and  nuns 
being  conspicuous.  Chanting  as  they  go,  out- 
siders falling  on  their  knees  at  the  approach  of 
the  baldachin,  the  pilgrims  now  wind  in  solemn 
procession  round  the  statue  in  front  of  the  church, 
and  finally  enter,  when  another  religious  celebra- 
tion takes  place.  Services  are  going  on  all  day  long 
and  late  into  the  night.  Hardly  do  these  devotees 
give  themselves  time  for  meals,  which  are  a 
scramble  at  best,  every  hotel  and  boarding-house 
much  overcrowded.  The  table  d'hote  dinner,  or 
one  or  two  dishes,  are  hastily  swallowed,  and  the 
praying,  chanting,  marching  and  prostrating 
begin  afresh.  At  eight  o'clock  from  afar  comes 
the  sound  of  pilgrims'  voices  as  the  procession 
winds  towards  the  grotto. 

There  is  picturesqueness  in  these  nocturnal 
celebrations,  the  tapers  twinkling  against  the  dark 
heavens,  the  voices  dying  away  in  the  distance. 
Superstition  has  its  season  as  well  as  sulphur- 
baths  and  chalybeate  springs.  The  railway 
station  is  a  scene  of  indescribable  confusion; 
enormous  contingents  come  for  a  few  hours  only, 
the  numbered  trains  that  brought  them  are  drawn 
up  outside  the  main  lines  awaiting  their  departure. 
Here  we  are  hustled  by  a  motley  throng;  fashion- 
able ladies  bedizened  with  rosaries,  badges,  and 
medallions;  elegant  young  gentlemen,  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  189 

jeunesse  doree  of  a  vanished  regime,  proudly 
wearing  the  pilgrim's  badge,  all  travelling  third- 
class  and  in  humble  company  for  their  soul's 
good;  peasant  women  from  Brittany  in  charming 
costumes;  a  very,  very  few  blue  blouses  of  elderly 
civilians;;  enormous  numbers  wearing  religious 
garb. 

It  seems  a  pity  that  a  bargain  could  not  be 
struck  by  France  and  Germany,  the  Emperor 
William  receiving  Lourdes  in  exchange  for  Metz 
or  Strasburg  !  Lourdes  must  represent  a  princely 
revenue,  far  in  excess,  I  should  say,  of  any  profit 
the  Prussian  Government  will  ever  make  out  of 
the  annexed  provinces;  and  as  nobody  lives  there, 
and  visitors  only  remain  a  day  or  two,  it  would 
not  matter  to  the  most  patriotic  French  pilgrim 
going  to  whom  the  place  belonged. 

The  tourist  brings  evil  as  well  as  good  in  his 
track,  and  the  tax  upon  glorious  scenery  here  is 
not  the  globe-trotter  but  the  mendicant.  Gavarnie 
is,  without  doubt,  as  grandiose  a  scene  as  Western 
Europe  can  show.  In  certain  elements  of 
grandeur  none  other  can  compete  with  it.  But 
until  a  balloon  service  is  organized  between  Luz 
and  the  famous  Cirque  it  is  impossible  to  make 
the  journey  with  an  unruffled  temper.  The 
traveller's  way  is  beset  by  juvenile  vagrants,  bare- 
faced and  importunate  as  Neapolitans  or  Arabs. 

Lovers  of  aerial  navigation  have  otherwise  not 


190    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

much  left  to  wish  for.    Nothing  can  be  more  like 
a  ride  in  cloudland  than  the  drive  from  Pierrefitte 
to  Luz  and  from  Luz  to  Gavarnie.    The  splendid 
rock-hewn  road  is  just  broad  enough  to  admit  of 
two  carriages  abreast.     On  one  side  are  lofty, 
shelving  rocks,  on  the  other  a  stone  coping  two 
feet  high,  nothing  else  to  separate  us  from  the 
awful  abyss  below,  a  ravine  deep  as  the  measure 
of  St.   Paul's  Cathedral  from  base  to  apex  of 
golden  cross.    We  hear  the  thunder  of  the  river 
as  it  dashes  below  by  mountains  two-thirds  the 
height  of  Mont  Blanc,  their  dark,  almost  perpen- 
dicular   sides    wreathed    with    cloud,    on    their 
summits  gleaming  never-melted  snow,  here  and 
there  the  sombre  parapets  streaked  with  silvery 
cascades.     At    intervals    the    Titanic    scene    is 
relieved  by  glimpses  of  pastoral  grace  and  love- 
liness, and  such  relief  is  necessary  even  to  those 
who  can  gaze  without  giddiness  on  such  awful- 
ness.    Between  gorge  and  gorge  lie  level  spaces, 
amid  dazzlingly-green  meadows  the  river  flows 
calm  and  crystal  clear,  the  form  and  hue  of  every 
pebble  distinct  as  the  pieces  of  a  mosaic.    Look- 
ing upwards  we  see  hanging  gardens  and  what 
may  be   called  farmlets,   tiny  homesteads  with 
minute  patches  of  wheat,  Indian  corn,  and  clover 
on  an  incline  so  steep  as  to  look  vertical.     Most 
beautiful  and  refreshing  to  the  eye  are  the  little 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     191 

hayfields  sloping  from  the  river,  the  freshly- 
mown  hay  in  cocks  or  being  turned,  the  shorn 
pasture  around  bright  as  emerald.  Harvest 
during  the  year  1891  was  late,  and  in  the  first 
week  of  September  corn  was  still  standing; 
nowhere,  surely,  corn  so  amber-tinted,  so  golden, 
nowhere,  surely,  ripened  so  near  the  clouds.  In 
the  tiny  chalets  perched  on  the  mountain  ridges, 
folks  literally  dwell  in  cloudland,  anbl  enjoy  a 
kind  of  supernal  existence,  having  for  near  neigh- 
bours the  eagles  in  their  eyries  and  the  fleet- 
footed  chamois  or  izard. 

These  vast  panoramas — towering  rocks  of 
manifold  shape,  Alp  rising  above  Alp  snow- 
capped or  green-tinted,  terrace  upon  terrace  of 
fields  and  homesteads — show  every  variety  of 
savage  grandeur  and  soft  beauty  till  we  gradually 
reach  the  threshold  of  Gavarnie.  This  is  aptly 
called  "chaos,"  which  we  might  fancifully  sup- 
pose the  leavings,  "  the  fragments  that  were  left," 
of  the  semicircular  wall  now  visible,  thrown  up 
by  transhuman  builders,  insurmountable  barrier 
between  heaven  and  earth.  No  sooner  does  the 
awful  amphitheatre  break  upon  the  view,  than  we 
discern  the  white  line  of  the  principal  fall,  a 
slender  silvery  column  reaching,  so  it  seems,  from 
star-land  anH  moon-land  to  earth;  river  of  some 
upper  world  that  has  overleaped  the  boundaries 


192    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

of  our  own.     No  words  can  convey  the  remotest 
idea  of  such  a  scene. 

We  may  say  with  regard  to  scenery  what 
Lessing  says  of  pictures,  we  only  see  in  both 
what  we  bring  with  us  to  the  view.  More  dis- 
concerting than  the  importunities  of  beggars  and 
donkey-drivers  are  the  supercilious  remarks  of 
tourists.  To  most,  of  course,  the  whole  thing  is 
"  a  sad  disappointment."  Everything  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  disappointment  to  some  beholders; 
and  with  critics  of  a  certain  order,  the  mere  fact 
of  not  being  pleased  implies  superiority.  The 
hour's  walk  from  the  village  to  the  Cirque  is  an 
event  also  in  the  life  of  the  flower-lover.  We 
have  hardly  eyes  for  Gavarnie,  so  completely  is 
our  gaze  fascinated  by  the  large  luminous  gold 
and  silver  stars  gleaming  conspicuously  from  the 
brilliant  turf.  These  are  the  glorious  flower- 
heads  of  the  white  and  yellow  Pyrenean  thistle 
that  open  in  sunshine  as  do  sea-anemones,  send- 
ing out  lovely  fringes,  sunrays  and  moonbeams 
not  more  strikingly  contrasted.  As  we  rush 
hither  and  thither  to  gather  them — if  we  can — 
their  roots  are  veritable  tentaculae,  other  lovely 
flowers  are  to  be  had  in  plenty,  the  beautiful 
deep-blue  Pyrenean  gentian,  monk's-hood  in  rich 
purple  blossom,  rose-coloured  antirrhinum,  an 
exquisite  little  yellow  sedum,  with  rare  ferns.  On 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  193 

one  side,  a  narrow  bridle-path  winds  round  the 
mountain  towards  Spain;  on  the  other,  cottage- 
farms  dot  the  green  slopes ;  between  both,  parting 
the  valley,  flows  the  Gave,  here  a  quietly  meander- 
ing streamlet,  whilst  before  us  rises  Gavarnie;  a 
scene  to  which  one  poet  only — perhaps  the  only 
one  capable  of  grappling  with  such  a  subject — 
has  done  justice — 

"  Cirque,  hippodrome, 

Stage  whereon  Stamboul,  Tyre,  Memphis,  London,  Rome, 
With  their  myriads  could  find  place,  whereon  Paris  at  ease 
Might  float,  as  at  sundown  a  swarm  of  bees, 
Gavarnie,  dream,  miracle  !  " l 

How  to  give  some  faint  conception  of  the 
indescribable?  Perhaps  the  great  French  poet 
has  best  succeeded  in  a  single  line — 

"  L'impossible  est  ici  debout." 

We  feel,  indeed,  that  we  are  here  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  impossible. 

Let  the  reader  then  conjure  up  a  solid  mass  of 
rock  threefold  the  circumference  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral;  let  him  imagine  the  fagade  of  this 
natural  masonry  of  itself  exceeding  the  compass 
of  our  great  Protestant  minster ;  then  in  imagina- 

1  "Un  cirque,  un  hippodrome, 

Un  theatre  oil  Stamboul,  Tyre,  Memphis,  Londres,  Rome, 
Avec  leurs  millions  d'hommes  pourraient  s'asseoir. 
Ou  Paris  flotterait  comme  un  essaim  du  soir. 
Gavarnie  !-— un  miracle  !  un  reve  ! " — Victor  Hugo,  "  Dieu." 
o 


194    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

tion  let  him  lift  his  eyes  from  stage  to  stage, 
platform  to  platform,  the  lower  nearly  three  times 
the  height  of  St.  Paul's  from  base  to  apex  of 
golden  cross,  the  higher  that  of  four  such  alti- 
tudes; their  gloomy  parapets  streaked  with 
glistening  white  lines,  one  a  vast  column  of  water, 
although  their  shelving  sides  show  patches  of 
never-melted  snows;  around,  framing  in  the 
stupendous  scene,  mountain  peaks,  each  unlike  its 
majestic  brother,  each  in  height  reaching  to  the 
shoulder  of  Mont  Blanc.  Such  is  Gavarnie. 

My  next  halting-place  was  a  remote  Pyrenean  vil- 
lage admirably  adapted  for  the  study  of  rural  life. 
Within  a  few  hours' journey  of  the  Spanish  frontier, 
Osse  lies  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  Aspe,  and  is 
reached  by  way  of  Pau  and  Oloron.  At  the  latter 
town  the  railway  ends,  and  we  have  to  drive 
sixteen  miles  across  country,  a  delightful  expe- 
dition in  favourable  weather.  The  twin  towns, 
old  and  new  Oloron,  present  the  contrast  so 
ofteTT^een  throughout  France,  picturesque,  im- 
posing antiquity  beside  utilitarian  ugliness  and 
uniformity.  The  open  suburban  spaces  present 
the  appearance  of  an  enormous  drying-ground,  in 
which  are  hung  the  blankets  of  the  entire  depart- 
ment. Blankets,  woollen  girdles  or  sashes,  men's 
bonnets  are  manufactured  here.  "  Pipers,  blue 
bonnets,  and  oatmeal,"  wrote  an  English  traveller 


OSSE 


\Tofacep.  194 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     195 


a  hundred  years  ago,  "are  found  in  Catalonia, 
Auvergne,  and  Suabia  as  well  as  in  Lochaber." 
We  are  now  in  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Beam,  with 
a  portion  of  Navarre  added  to  the  French  crown 
by  Henry  IV.,  and,  two  hundred  years  later, 
named  the  department  of  the  Basses  Pyrenees. 

Every  turn  of  the  road  reveals  new  features  as 
we  journey  towards  Osse,  having  always  in  view 
the  little  Gave  d'Aspe,  after  the  manner  of 
Pyrenean  rivers,  making  cascades,  waterfalls, 
whirlpools  on  its  way.  Most  beautiful  are  these 
mountain  streams,  their  waters  of  pure,  deep 
green,  their  surface  broken  by  coruscations  of 
dazzlingly  white  foam  and  spray,  their  murmur 
ever  in  our  ears.  When  far  away  we  hardly  miss 
the  grand  contours  of  the  Pyrenees  more  than 
the  music  of  their  rushing  waters.  No  tourists 
meet  us  here,  yet  whither  shall  we  go  for  scenes 
sublimer  or  more  engaging?  On  either  side  of 
the  broadening  velvety  green  valley,  with  its 
tumbling  stream,  rises  a  rampart  of  stately  peaks, 
each  unlike  its  neighbour,  each  having  a  gracious- 
ness  and  grandeur  of  its  own.  Here  and  there 
amid  these  vast  solitudes  is  seen  a  white  glitter- 
ing thread  breaking  the  dark  masses  of  shelving 
rock,  mountain  torrent  falling  into  the  river  from 
a  height  of  several  hundred  feet.  Few  and  far 

between  are  the  herdsmen's  chalets  and  scattered 
o  2 


196    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

cornfields  and  meadows,  and  we  have  the  excel- 
lent carriage  road  to  ourselves.  Yet  two  or  three 
villages  of  considerable  size  are  passed  on  the 
way;  of  one,  an  inland  spa  much  frequented  by 
the  peasants,  I  shall  make  mention  presently. 

For  three  hours  we  have  wound  slowly  upward, 
and,  as  our  destination  is  approached,  the  valley 
opens  wide,  showing  white-walled,  grey-roofed 
hamlets  and  small  towns  all  singularly  alike.  The 
mountains  soon  close  round  abruptly  on  all  sides, 
making  us  feel  as  if  we  had  reached  the  world's 
end.  On  the  other  side  of  those  snow-capped 
peaks,  here  so  majestically  massed  before  our  gaze, 
lies  Spain.  We  are  in  a  part  of  France  thoroughly 
French,  yet  within  a  few  hours  of  a  country  strik- 
ingly contrasted  with  it ;  manners,  customs,  modes 
of  thought,  institutions  radically  different. 

The  remoteness  and  isolation  of  Osse  explain 
the  existence  of  a  little  Protestant  community  in 
these  mountain  fastnesses.  For  centuries  the 
Reformed  faith  has  been  upheld  here.  Not,  how- 
ever, unmolested.  A  tablet  in  the  neat  little 
church  tells  how  the  original  place  of  Protestant 
worship  was  pulled  down  by  order  of  the  king 
in  1685,  and  only  reconstructed  towards  the  close 
of  the  following  century.  Without  church,  with- 
out pastor,  forbidden  to  assemble,  obliged  to  bury 
their  dead  in  field  or  garden,  these  dales-folk  and 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    197 

mountaineers  yet  clung  tenaciously  to  their 
religion.  One  compromise,  and  one  only,  they 
made.  Peasant  property  has  existed  in  the 
Pyrenees  from  time  immemorial,  and  in  order  to 
legitimize  their  children  and  enjoy  the  privilege 
of  bequeathing  property,  the  Protestants  of  the 
Vallee  d'Aspe  were  married  according  to  the  rites 
of  the  Romish  Church.  In  our  own  days,  here 
as  elsewhere  throughout  France,  the  religious 
tenets  handed  down  from  father  to  son  are 
adhered  to  without  wavering,  and  at  the  same  time 
without  apparent  enthusiasm.  Catholics  and  Pro- 
testants live  amicably  side  by  side;  but  inter- 
marriages are  rare,  and  conversions  from  Rome 
to  rationalism  infrequent.  The  Sunday  services 
of  the  little  Protestant  church  are  often  attended 
by  Catholics.  Strangers  passing  through  Osse, 
market-folk,  peasants  and  others,  never  fail  to 
inspect  it  curiously.  The  Protestant  pastor  is 
looked  up  to  with  respect  and  affection  alike  by 
Catholic  and  Protestant  neighbours.  The  rival 
churches  neither  lose  nor  gain  adherents  to  any 
extent.  This  fact  is  curious,  especially  in  a  spot 
where  Protestantism  is  seen  at  its  best.  It  shows 
the  extreme  conservatism  and  stability  of  the 
French  character,  often  set  down  as  revolutionary 
and  fickle.  In  England  folks  often  and  avowedly 
change  their  religion  several  times  during  their 


198    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

lives.  Is  not  the  solemn  reception  into  Rome 
of  instructed  men  and  women  among  ourselves 
a  matter  of  every  day?  In  France  it  is  otherwise, 
and  when  a  change  is  made  we  shall  generally 
find  that  the  step  is  no  retrograde  one. 

If  the  social  aspect  is  encouraging  at  Osse,  the 
same  may  be  said  of  peasant  property.  Even  a 
Zola  must  admit  some  good  in  a  community 
unstained  by  crime  during  a  period  of  twenty 
years,  and  bound  by  ties  of  brotherhood  which 
render  want  impossible.  A  beautiful  spirit  of 
humanity,  a  delicacy  rare  among  the  most 
polished  societies,  characterize  these  frugal  sons 
and  daughters  of  the  soil.  Nor  is  consideration 
for  others  confined  to  fellow-beings  only.  The 
animal  is  treated  as  the  friend,  not  the  slave  of 
man.  "We  have  no  need  of  the  Loi  Grammont 
here,"  said  a  resident  to  me ;  and  personal  observa- 
tion confirmed  the  statement. 

As  sordidness  carried  to  the  pitch  of  brutality 
is  often  imputed  to  the  French  peasant,  let  me 
relate  an  incident  that  occurred  hereabouts,  not 
long  before  my  visit.  The  land  is  minutely 
divided,  many  possessing  a  cottage  and  field  only. 
One  of  these  very  small  owners  was  suddenly 
ruined  by  the  falling  of  a  rock,  his  cottage,  cow 
and  pig  being  destroyed.  Without  saying  a  word, 
his  neighbours,  like  himself  in  very  humble  cir- 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     199 


cumstances,  made  up  a  purse  of  five  hundred 
francs,  a  large  sum  with  such  donors,  and,  too 
delicate-minded  to  offer  the  gift  themselves, 
deputed  an  outsider  to  do  it  anonymously. 
Another  instance  in  point  came  to  my  knowledge. 
This  was  of  a  young  woman  servant,  who,  during 
the  illness  of  her  employer,  refused  to  accept 
wages.  "  You  shall  pay  me  some  other  time,"  said 
the  girl  to  her  mistress;  "I  am  sure  you  can  ill 
afford  to  give  me  the  money  now." 

Peasant  property  and  rural  life  generally  here 
presented  to  me  some  wholly  new  features;  one 
of  these  is  the  almost  entire  self-sufficingness  of 
very  small  holdings,  their  owners  neither  buying 
nor  selling,  making  their  little  crops  and  stock 
almost  completely  supply  their  needs.  Thus  on 
a  field  or  two,  enough  flax  is  grown  with  which  to 
spin  linen  for  home  use,  enough  wheat  and  Indian 
corn  for  the  year's  bread-making,  maize  being 
mixed  with  wheaten  flour;  again,  pigs  and  poultry 
are  reared  for  domestic  consumption — expend- 
iture being  reduced  to  the  minimum.  Coffee  is  a 
luxury  seldom  indulged  in,  a  few  drink  home- 
grown wine,  but  all  are  large  milk-drinkers.  The 
poorest  is  a  good  customer  of  the  dairy  farmer. 

I  was  at  first  greatly  puzzled  by  the  information 
of  a  neighbour  that  he  kept  cows  for  the  purpose 
of  selling  milk.  Osse  being  sixteen  miles  from 


200    IN  THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

a  railway  station,  possessing  neither  semi- 
detached villas,  hotels,  boarding-houses,  convents, 
barracks,  nor  schools,  and  a  population  of  from 
three  to  four  hundred  only,  most  of  these  small 
farmers — who  were  his  patrons? 

I  afterwards  learned  that  the  "ha'porth  of 
milk,"  which  means  much  more  in  all  senses  than 
with  us,  takes  the  place  of  tea,  coffee,  beer,  to  say 
nothing  of  more  pernicious  drinks,  with  the 
majority.  New  milk  from  the  cow  costs  about  a 
penny  a  quart,  and  perhaps  if  we  could  obtain  a 
similar  commodity  at  the  same  price  in  England, 
even  gin  might  be  supplanted.  Eggs  and  butter 
are  also  very  cheap;  but  as  the  peasants  rear 
poultry  exclusively  for  their  own  use,  it  is  by  no 
means  easy  at  Osse  to  procure  a  chicken.  A  little, 
a  very  little  money  goes  to  the  shoemaker  and 
general  dealer,  and  fuel  has  to  be  bought;  this 
item  is  inconsiderable,  the  peasants  being  allowed 
to  cart  wood  from  the  communal  forests  for  the 
sum  of  five  or  six  francs  yearly.  The  village  is 
chiefly  made  up  of  farmhouses;  on  the  moun- 
tain-sides and  in  the  valley  are  the  chalets  and 
shepherds'  huts,  abandoned  in  winter.  The 
homesteads  are  massed  round  the  two  churches, 
Catholic  and  Protestant,  most  having  a  narrow 
strip  of  garden  and  balcony  carried  along  the 
upper  storey,  which  does  duty  as  a  drying-ground. 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    201 

One  of  these  secluded  hamlets,  with  its  slated 
roofs,  white  walls,  and  brown  shutters,  closely 
resembles  another;  but  Osse  stands  alone  in 
possessing  a  Protestant  church  and  community. 

Although  the  little  centre  of  a  purely  agricul- 
tural region,  we  find  here  one  of  those  small, 
specific  industries,  as  characteristic  of  French 
districts  as  soil  and  produce.  Folks  being  great 
water-drinkers,  they  will  have  their  drinking-water 
in  a  state  of  perfection.  Some  native  genius  long- 
ago  invented  a  vessel  which  answers  the  require- 
ment of  the  most  fastidious.  This  is  a  pail-shaped 
receptacle  of  yewen  wood,  bound  with  brass 
bands,  both  inner  and  outer  parts  being  kept 
exquisitely  clean.  Water  in  such  vessels  remains 
cool  throughout  the  hottest  hours  of  the  hottest 
summer,  and  the  wood  is  exceedingly  durable, 
standing  wear  and  tear,  it  is  said,  hundreds  of 
years.  The  turning  and  encasing  of  yewen  wood, 
brass-bound  water-jars  is  a  flourishing  manu- 
facture at  Osse. 

Here  may  be  seen  and  studied  peasant  property 
in  many  stages.  I  would  again  remark  that  any 
comparison  between  the  condition  of  the  English 
agricultural  labourer  and  the  French  peasant 
proprietor  is  irrelevant  and  inconclusive.  In  the 
cottage  of  a  small  owner  at  Osse,  for  instance, 
we  may  discover  features  to  shock  us,  often  a 


202    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

total  absence  of  the  neatness  and  veneer  of  the 
Sussex  ploughman's  home.  Our  disgust  is  trifling 
compared  with  that  of  the  humblest,  most  hard- 
working owner  of  the  soil,  when  he  learns  under 
what  conditions  lives  his  English  compeer.  To 
till  another's  ground  for  ten  or  eleven  shillings 
a  week,  inhabit  a  house  from  which  at  a  week's 
notice  that  other  can  eject  him,  possess  neither 
home,  field  nor  garden,  and  have  no  kind  of 
provision  against  old  age,  such  a  state  of  things 
appears  to  our  artless  listener  wholly  inconceiv- 
able, incommensurate  with  modern  civilization 
and  bare  justice. 

As  an  instance  of  the  futility  of  comparisons, 
I  will  mention  one  experience.  I  was  returning 
home  late  one  afternoon  when  a  poorly-dressed, 
sunburnt  woman  overtook  me.  She  bore  on  her 
head  a  basket  of  bracken,  and  her  appearance  was 
such  that  in  any  other  country  I  should  have 
expected  a  demand  for  alms.  Greeting  me,  how- 
ever, cheerfully  and  politely,  she  at  once  entered 
into  conversation.  She  had  seen  me  at  church  on 
Sunday,  and  went  on  to  speak  of  the  pastor,  with 
what  esteem  both  Catholics  and  Protestants 
regarded  him,  then  of  the  people,  their  mode  of 
life  and  condition  generally. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry,  "  there 
is  no  real  want  here,  and  no  vagrancy.  Every- 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    203 

body  has  his  bit  of  land,  or  can  find  work.  I 
come  from  our  vineyard  on  the  hillside  yonder, 
and  am  now  returning  home  to  supper  in  the 
village — our  farmhouse  is  there."  She  was  a 
widow,  she  added,  and  with  her  son  did  the  work 
of  their  little  farm,  the  daughter-in-law  minding 
the  house  and  baby.  They  reared  horses  for  sale, 
possessed  a  couple  of  cows,  besides  pigs  and 
poultry. 

The  good  manners,  intelligence,  urbanity,  and 
quiet  contentment  of  this  good  woman  were  very 
striking.  She  had  beautiful  white  teeth,  and  was 
not  prematurely  aged,  only  very  sunburnt  and 
shabby,  her  black  stuff  dress  blue  with  age  and 
mended  in  many  places,  her  partially  bare  feet 
thrust  in  sabots.  The  women  here  wear  toeless  or 
footless  stockings,  the  upper  part  of  the  foot 
being  bare.  I  presume  this  is  an  economy,  as 
wooden  shoes  wear  out  stockings.  We  chatted 
of  England,  of  Protestantism,  and  many  topics 
before  bidding  each  other  good-night.  There  was 
no  constraint  on  her  part,  and  no  familiarity.  She 
talked  fluently  and  naturally,  just  as  one  first- 
class  lady  traveller  might  do  to  a  fellow- 
passenger.  Yet,  if  not  here  in  contact  with  the 
zero  of  peasant  property,  we  are  considering  its 
most  modest  phase. 

A  step  higher  and  we  found  an  instance  of  the 


204    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

levelling  process  characteristic  of  every  stage  of 
French  society,  yet  hardly  to  be  looked  for  in  a 
remote  Pyrenean  village.  In  one  of  our  after- 
noon rambles  we  overtook  a  farmeress,  and 
accepted  an  invitation  to  accompany  her  home. 
She  tripped  cheerfully  beside  us;  although  a 
Catholic,  on  friendliest  terms  with  her  Protestant 
neighbours.  Her  thin  white  feet  in  toeless  stock- 
ings and  sabots,  well-worn  woollen  petticoat, 
black  stuff  jacket,  headgear  of  an  old  black  silk 
handkerchief,  would  have  suggested  anything  but 
the  truth  to  the  uninitiated.  Here  also  the  unwary 
stranger  might  have  fumbled  for  a  spare  coin. 
She  had  a  kindly,  intelligent  face,  and  spoke 
volubly  in  patois,  having  very  little  command  of 
French.  It  was,  indeed,  necessary  for  me  to  con- 
verse by  the  medium  of  an  interpreter.  On 
approaching  the  village  we  were  overtaken  by  a 
slight,  handsome  youth  conducting  a  muck- wagon. 
This  was  her  younger  son,  and  his  easy,  well- 
bred  greeting,  and  correct  French,  prepared  me 
for  the  piece  of  intelligence  to  follow.  The 
wearer  of  peasant's  garb,  carting  manure,  had 
passed  his  examination  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  and 
Science,  had,  in  fact,  received  the  education  of 
a  gentleman.  In  his  case,  the  patrimony  being 
small,  a  professional  career  meant  an  uphill  fight, 
but  doubtless,  with  many  another,  he  would  attain 
his  end. 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    205 

The  farmhouse  was  large,  and,  as  is  unusual 
here,  apart  from  stables  and  cow-shed,  the  kitchen 
and  outhouse  being  on  the  ground  floor,  the  young 
men's  bedrooms  above.  Our  hostess  slept  in  a 
large,  curtained  four-poster,  occupying  a  corner  of 
the  kitchen.  A  handsome  wardrobe  of  solid  oak 
stood  in  a  conspicuous  place,  but  held  only  a 
portion  of  the  family  linen.  These  humble  house- 
wives count  their  sheets  by  the  dozen  of  dozens, 
and  linen  is  still  spun  at  home,  although  not  on 
the  scale  of  former  days.  The  better-off  purchase 
strong,  unbleached  goods  of  local  manufacture. 
Here  and  there  I  saw  old  women  plying  spindle 
and  distaff,  but  the  spinning-wheel  no  longer 
hums  in  every  cottage  doorway. 

Meantime  our  hospitable  entertainer — it  is  ever 
the  women  who  wait  on  their  guests — brought  out 
home-grown  wine,  somewhat  sour  to  the  unaccus- 
tomed palate,  and,  as  a  corrective,  home-made 
brandy,  which,  with  sugar,  formed  an  agreeable 
liqueur,  walnuts — everything,  indeed,  that  she  had. 
We  were  also  invited  to  taste  the  bread  made  of 
wheaten  and  maize  flour  mixed,  a  heavy,  clammy 
compound  answering  Mrs.  Squeers's  requirement 
of  "filling  for  the  price."  It  is  said  to  be  very 
wholesome  and  nutritious. 

The  kitchen  floor,  as  usual,  had  an  unsecured 
look,  but  was  clean  swept,  and  on  shelves  stood 
rows  of  earthen  and  copper  cooking-vessels  and 


206    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  yewen  wood,  brass-bound  water-jars  before 
mentioned.  The  fagade  of  the  house,  with  its 
shutters  and  balcony,  was  cheerful  enough,  but 
just  opposite  the  front  door  lay  a  large  heap  of 
farmhouse  manure  awaiting  transfer  to  the 
pastures.  A  little,  a  very  little,  is  needed  to  make 
these  premises  healthful  and  comfortable.  The 
removal  of  the  manure-heap,  stables,  and  cow- 
shed; a  neat  garden  plot,  a  flowering  creeper  on 
the  wall,  and  the  aspect  would  be  in  accordance 
with  the  material  condition  of  the  owner. 

The  property  shared  by  this  widow  and  her  two 
sons  consisted  of  between  five  and  six  acres,  made 
up  of  arable  land  and  meadow.  They  kept  four 
cows,  four  mares  for  purposes  of  horse-breeding, 
and  a  little  poultry.  Milch  cows  here  are  occa- 
sionally used  on  the  farm,  an  anomaly  among  a 
population  extremely  gentle  to  animals. 

My  next  visits  were  paid  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, when  everybody  is  at  home  to  friends  and 
neighbours.  Protestant  initiative  in  the  matter  of 
the  seventh  day  rest  has  been  uniformly  followed, 
alike  man  and  beast  enjoy  complete  repose.  As 
there  are  no  cabarets  and  no  trippers  to  disturb 
the  public  peace,  the  tranquillity  is  unbroken. 

Our  first  call  was  upon  an  elder  of  the  Pro- 
testant Church,  and  one  of  the  wealthier  peasants 
of  the  community.  The  farmhouse  was  on  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    207 

usual  Pyrenean  plan,  stables  and  neat-houses 
occupying  the  ground  floor,  an  outer  wooden  stair- 
case leading  to  kitchen,  parlour,  and  bedrooms; 
on  the  other  side  a  balcony  overlooking  a  narrow 
strip  of  garden. 

Our  host,  dressed  in  black  cloth  trousers,  black 
alpaca  blouse,  and  spotless,  faultlessly-ironed 
linen,  received  us  with  great  cordiality  and  the 
ease  of  a  well-bred  man.  His  mother  lived  with 
him,  a  charming  old  lady,  like  himself  peasant- 
born,  but  having  excellent  manners.  She  wore 
the  traditional  black  hood  of  aged  and  widowed 
Huguenot  women,  and  her  daughter-in-law  and 
little  granddaughter,  neat  stuff  gowns  and 
coloured  cashmere  kerchiefs  tied  under  the  chin. 

We  were  first  ushered  into  the  vast  kitchen  or 
"  living  room,"  at  it  would  be  called  in  some  parts 
of  England,  to-day  with  every  other  part  of  the 
house  in  apple-pie  order.  Large  oak  presses, 
rows  of  earthen  and  copper  cooking-vessels,  an 
enormous  flour-bin,  with  plain  deal  table  and 
chairs,  made  up  the  furniture,  from  one  part  of 
the  ceiling  hanging  large  quantities  of  ears 
of  Indian  corn  to  dry.  Here  bread  is  baked 
once  a  week,  and  all  the  cooking  and  meals  take 
place. 

Leading  out  of  the  kitchen  was  the  salon  or 
drawing-room,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen  in  a 


208    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

peasant  farmer's  house.  A  handsome  tapestry 
table-cover,  chimney  ornaments,  mirror,  sofa,  arm- 
chairs, rugs,  betokened  not  only  solid  means  but 
taste.  We  were  next  shown  the  grandmother's 
bedchamber,  which  was  handsomely  furnished 
with  every  modern  requirement,  white  toilet- 
covers  and  bed-quilt,  window-curtains,  rug,  wash- 
stand;  any  lady  unsatisfied  here  would  be  hard 
indeed  to  please.  The  room  of  master  and 
mistress  was  on  the  same  plan,  only  much  larger, 
and  one  most-unlooked-for  item  caught  my  eye. 
This  was  a  towel-horse  (perhaps  the  comfortably- 
appointed  parsonage  had  set  the  fashion?),  a 
luxury  never  seen  in  France  except  in  brand-new 
hotels.  As  a  rule  the  towel  is  hung  in  a  cupboard. 
We  were  then  shown  several  other  bedrooms,  all 
equally  suggestive  of  comfort  and  good  taste;  yet 
the  owner  was  a  peasant,  prided  himself  on  being 
so,  and  had  no  intention  of  bringing  up  his 
children  to  any  other  condition.  His  farm  con- 
sisted of  a  few  hectares  only,  but  was  very  pro- 
ductive. We  saw  his  cows,  of  which  he  is  very 
fond,  the  gentle  creatures  making  signs  of  joy 
at  their  master's  approach.  Four  or  five  cows,  as 
many  horses  for  breeding  purposes,  a  few  sheep, 
pigs,  and  poultry  made  up  his  stock.  All  that  I 
saw  of  this  family  gave  me  a  very  high  notion  of 
intelligence,  morality,  thrift  and  benevolence. 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  209 

Very  feelingly  all  spoke  of  their  animals  and  of 
the  duty  of  human  beings  towards  the  animal 
world  generally.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard 
such  a  tone  taken  by  French  peasants,  but  I  was 
here,  be  it  remembered,  among  Protestants.  The 
horrible  excuse  made  in  Italy  and  Brittany  for 
cruelty  to  beasts,  "  Ce  ne  sont  pas  des  chretiens," 
finds  no  acceptance  among  these  mountaineers. 

Our  second  visit  brought  us  into  contact  with 
the  bourgeois  element.    The  farmhouse,  of  much 
better  appearance  than  the  rest,  also  stood  in  the 
village.    The  holding  was  about  the  size  of  that 
just  described.    The  young  mistress  was  dressed 
in  conventional  style,  had  passed  an  examination 
at  a  girls'   Lycee,   entitling  her  to   the   brevet 
superieur  or  higher  certificate,  her  husband  wore 
the  dress  of  a  country  gentleman,  and  we  were 
ushered  into  a  drawing-room  furnished  with  piano, 
pictures,  a  Japanese  cabinet,  carpets,  and  curtains. 
The  bedrooms  might  have  been  fitted  up  by  an 
upholsterer  of  Tottenham  Court  Road.     It  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  I  am  not  describing  the 
wealthy  farmers  of  the  Seine  and  Marne  or  La 
Vendee. 

The  fact  that  these  young  people  let  a  part  of 
their  large,  well-furnished  house  need  not  surprise 
us.  There  is  no  poverty  here,  but  no  riches.  I 
do  not  suppose  that  any  one  of  the  small  land- 


210    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

owners  to  whom  I  was  introduced  could  retire 
to-morrow  and  live  on  his  savings.  I  dare  aver 
that  one  and  all  are  in  receipt  of  a  small  income 
from  invested  capital,  and  have  a  provision 
against  sickness  and  old  age. 

The  master  of  the  house  showed  me  his  stock, 
five  or  six  handsome  cows  of  cross  breed,  in  value 
from  £10  to  £16,  the  latter  the  maximum  price 
here.  We  next  saw  several  beautiful  mares  and 
young  colts,  and  four  horned  sheep.  Sheep- 
keeping  and  farming  are  seldom  carried  on 
together,  and  this  young  farmer  was  striking  out 
a  new  path  for  himself.  He  told  me  that  he 
intended  to  rear  and  fatten  sheep,  also  to  use 
artificial  manure.  Up  to  the  present  time,  guanos 
and  phosphates  are  all  but  unknown  in  these 
regions,  only  farmhouse  dung  is  used,  cows  being 
partly  kept  for  that  purpose.  Although  the  land 
is  very  productive,  my  informant  assured  me  that 
much  remained  to  be  done  by  departure  from 
routine  and  the  adoption  of  advanced  methods. 
The  cross-breeding  of  stock  was  another  subject 
he  had  taken  up.  Such  initiators  are  needed  in 
districts  remote  from  agricultural  schools,  model 
farms,  and  State-paid  chairs  of  agriculture. 

Each  of  the  four  instances  just  given  differed 
from  the  other.  The  first  showed  us  peasant 
property  in  its  simplest  development,  a  little 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT   LAST    211 

family  contentedly  living  on  their  bit  of  land, 
making  its  produce  suffice  for  daily  needs,  inde- 
pendent of  marts  and  markets  as  the  members  of 
a  primitive  community. 

The  second  stage  showed  us  a  wholly  dissimilar 
condition,  yet  not  without  its  ideal  side.  We  were 
brought  face  to  face  with  that  transitional  phase 
of  society  and  pacific  revolution,  of  happiest 
augury  for  the  future.  From  the  peasant  ranks 
are  now  recruited  contingents  that  will  make  civil 
wars  impossible,  men  who  carry  into  politics 
learning  and  the  arts,  those  solid  qualities  that 
have  made  rural  France  the  admiration  of  the 
world,  and  more  than  once  saved  her  Republic. 

The  first  instance  exemplified  the  intense  con- 
servatism of  the  French  peasant.  Liberal  in 
politics,  enlightened  in  religion,  open  to  the  recep- 
tion of  new  ideas,  here  was  nevertheless  a  man 
absolutely  satisfied  with  social  conditions  as  they 
affected  himself  and  his  children,  utterly  devoid 
of  envy  or  worldly  ambition.  To  reap  the  benefits 
of  his  toil,  deserve  the  esteem  of  his  neighbours, 
bequeath  his  little  estate,  improved  and  enriched, 
to  his  heirs,  surely  this  was  no  contemptible  ideal 
either. 

The  last  case  differed  from  the  other  three. 
We  were  now  reminded  of  the  English  tenant,  or 
even  gentleman-farmer — with  a  differance.  Alike 


p  2 


212    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

master  and  mistress  had  received  a  good  educa- 
tion and  seen  something  of  the  world;  they  could 
enjoy  music  and  books.  But  in  spite  of  her  brevet 
superieuTy  the  wife  attended  to  her  dairy;  and 
although  the  husband  was  a  gentleman  in  manners 
and  appearance,  he  looked  after  the  stock.  They 
lived,  too,  on  friendliest  terms  with  their  less- 
instructed  and  homelier  neighbours,  the  black 
alpaca  blouse  and  coloured  kerchief,  doing  duty 
for  bonnet,  being  conspicuous  at  their  Sunday 
receptions.  Not  even  a  Zola  can  charge  French 
village-life  with  the  snobbishness  so  conspicuous 
in  England.  It  will  be  amply  shown  from  the 
foregoing  examples  that  peasant  property  is  no 
fixed  condition  to  be  arbitrarily  dealt  with  after 
the  manner  of  certain  economists.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  many-phased;  the  fullest  and  widest 
development  of  modern  France  is  indeed  modern 
France  itself.  The  peasant  owner  of  the  soil  has 
attained  the  highest  position  in  his  own  country. 
No  other  class  can  boast  of  such  social,  moral 
and  material  ascendency.  He  is  the  acknow- 
ledged arbitrator  of  the  fortunes  of  France. 

I  will  now  cite  two  facts  illustrating  the  bright 
side  of  peasant  property  in  its  humblest  phase, 
where  we  have  been  told  to  expect  sordidness, 
even  brutality.  The  land  hereabouts,  as  I  have 
before  stated,  is  excessively  divided,  the  holdings 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  218 

being  from  two  and  a  half  acres  in  extent  and 
upwards.  It  often  happens  that  the  younger 
children  of  these  small  owners  give  up  their  share 
of  the  little  family  estate  without  claiming  a 
centime  of  compensation,  and  seek  their  fortunes 
in  the  towns.  They  betake  themselves  to  handi- 
crafts and  trade,  in  their  turn  purchasing  land 
with  the  savings  from  daily  wages. 

Again,  it  is  supposed  that  the  life  of  the  peasant 
owner  is  one  of  uniform,  unbroken  drudgery,  his 
daily  existence  hardly  more  elevated  than  that  of 
the  ox  harnessed  to  his  plough.  Who  ever  heard 
of  an  English  labourer  taking  a  fourteen  days' 
rest  at  the  seaside?  When  did  a  rheumatic 
ploughman  have  recourse  to  Bath  or  Buxton? 
They  order  these  things  better  in  France. 

Between  Osse  and  Oloron  stands  Escot,  long 
famous  for  its  warm  springs.  The  principal 
patrons  of  this  modest  watering-place  are  the 
peasants.  It  is  their  Carlsbad,  their  Homburg, 
many  taking  a  season  as  regularly  as  the  late  King 
Edward.  The  thing  is  done  with/  thoroughness, 
but  at  a  minimum  of  cost.  They  pay  half  a  franc 
daily  for  a  room,  and  another  half-franc  for  the 
waters,  cooking  their  meals  in  the  general  kitchen 
of  the  establishment.  Where  the  French  peasant 
believes,  his  faith  is  phenomenal.  Some  of  these 
valetudinarians  drink  as  many  as  forty-six  glasses 


214    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

of  mineral  water  a  day!  What  must  be  their 
capacities  in  robust  health?  The  bourgeois  or 
civilian  element  is  not  absent.  Hither  from  Pau 
and  Oloron  come  clerks  and  small  functionaries 
with  their  families.  Newspapers  are  read  and 
discussed  in  company.  We  may  be  sure  that  the 
rustic  spa  is  a  little  centre  of  sociability  and 
enlightenment. 

Let  me  now  say  something  about  the  crops  of 
this  sweet  Pyrenean  valley.  The  chief  of  these 
are  corn,  maize,  rye,  potatoes,  and  clover;  the  soil 
being  too  dry  and  poor  for  turnips  and  beetroot. 
Flax  is  grown  in  small  quantities,  and  here 
and  there  we  seen  vines,  but  the  wine  is  thin  and 
sour. 

From  time  immemorial,  artificial  irrigation  has 
been  carried  on  in  the  Vallee  d'Aspe,  and  most 
beautiful  is  the  appearance  of  the  brilliantly  green 
pastures,  intersected  by  miniature  canals  in  every 
direction;  the  sweet  pastoral  landscape  framed 
by  mountain  peaks  of  loveliest  colour  and  majestic 
shape.  These  well-watered  grasslands  produce 
two  or  even  three  crops  a  year;  the  second,  or 
regain  as  it  is  called,  was  being  got  in  early  in 
September,  and  harvest  having  taken  place  early, 
clover  was  already  springing  up  on  the  cleared 
cornfields.  Everywhere  men  and  women  were 
afield  making  hay  or  scattering  manure  on  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  215 

meadows,  the  latter  sometimes  being  done  with 
the  hands. 

All  these  small  farmers  keep  donkeys  and 
mules,  and  on  market-days  the  roads  are  alive 
with  cavalcades;  the  men  wearing  gay  waist- 
sashes,  flat  cloth  caps,  or  berets,  the  women 
coloured  kerchiefs.  The  type  is  uniform-- 
medium stature,  spareness,  dark  eyes  and  hair, 
and  olive  complexion  predominating.  Within  the 
last  thirty  years  the  general  health  and  physique 
have  immensely  improved,  owing  to  better  food 
and  wholesomer  dwellings.  Goitre  and  other 
maladies  arising  from  insufficient  diet  have  dis- 
appeared. Epidemics,  I  was  assured,  seldom 
work  havoc  in  this  valley;  and  though  much 
remains  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  drainage  and 
sanitation,  the  villages  have  a  clean,  cheerful 
look. 

The  last  ailment  that  would  occur  to  us  proves 
most  fatal  to  those  hardy  country  folks.  They 
are  very  neglectful  of  their  health,  and  as  the 
changes  of  temperature  are  rapid  and  sudden,  the 
chief  mortality  arises  from  inflammation  of  the 
lungs.  It  is  difficult  indeed  to  defend  oneself 
against  so  variable  a  climate.  On  my  arrival  the 
heat  was  tropical.  Twelve  hours  later  I  should 
have  rejoiced  in  a  fire.  Dangerous,  too,  is  the 
delicious  hour  after  sunset,  when  mist  rises  from 


216    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  valley,  whilst  yet  the  purple  and  golden  glow 
on  the  peaks  above  tempts  us  to  linger  abroad. 

The  scenery  is  grandiose  and  most  beautiful. 
Above  the  white-walled,  grey-roofed  villages  and 
townlings  scattered  about  the  open,  rise  sharp- 
pointed  green  hills  or  monticules,  one  gently  over- 
topping the  other;  surmounting  these,  lofty  barren 
peaks,  recalling  the  volcanic  chains  of  Auvergne, 
the  highest  snow-capped  point  twice  the  altitude  of 
the  Puy  de  Dome,  two-thirds  that  of  Mont  Blanc. 

Whichever  way  we  go  we  find  delightful 
scenery.  Hidden  behind  the  folded  hills, 
approached  by  lovely  little  glades  and  winding 
bridle-path,  tosses  and  foams  the  Gave  d'Aspe, 
its  banks  thickly  set  with  willow  and  salicornia, 
its  solitary  coves  inviting  the  bather.  The 
witchery  of  these  mountain  streams  grows  upon  us 
in  the  Pyrenees.  We  hunger  for  the  music  of 
their  cascades  when  far  away.  The  sun-lit,  snow- 
lit  peaks,  towering  into  the  brilliant  blue  heavens, 
are  not  deserted  as  they  appear.  Shepherd 
farmers  throughout  the  summer  dwell  in  huts 
here,  and  welcome  visitors  with  great  affability. 

Let  me  narrate  a  fact  interesting  alike  to  the 
naturalist  and  meteorologist.  On  the  7th  Sep- 
tember, 1891,  the  heat  on  one  of  these  summits, 
nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea-level,  was  so 
intense  that  a  little  flock  of  sheep  were  seen  liter- 


•        .*.    I      ••••••••••».••    • 


ORCUM 


[To  face  p.  216 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    217 

ally  hugging  the  snow,  laying  their  faces  against 
the  cool  masses,  huddled  about  them,  as  shiver- 
ing mortals  round  a  fire  in  winter.  And,  a  little 
way  off,  the  eye-witnesses  of  this  strange  scene 
gathered  deep  blue  irises  in  full  bloom. 

On  the  lower  slopes  the  farmers  leave  their 
horses  to  graze,  giving  them  a  look  from  time  to 
time.  One  beautiful  young  horse  lost  its  life  just 
before  my  arrival,  unwarily  approaching  a  pre- 
cipitous incline.  As  a  rule  accidents  are  very 
rare. 

The  izard  or  Pyrenean  chamois,  although 
hunted  as  game,  is  not  yet  a  survival  here,  nor 
the  eagle  and  bear,  the  latter  only  making  its 
appearance  in  winter-time. 

Tent-life  in  these  mountain-sides  is  quite  safe 
and  practicable.  Who  can  say?  A  generation 
hence  and  these  magnificent  Alps  may  be 
tunnelled  by  railways,  crowned  by  monster  hotels, 
peopled  from  July  to  October  with  tourists  in 
search  of  disappointments. 

At  present  the  Vallee  d'Aspe  is  the  peacefulest 
in  the  world.  Alike  on  week-days  and  Sundays 
the  current  of  life  flows  smoothly.  Every  morn- 
ing from  the  open  windows  of  the  parsonage  may 
be  heard  the  sweet,  simple  hymns  of  the  Lutheran 
Church,  master  and  mistress,  servants  and  chil- 
dren, uniting  in  daily  thanksgiving  and  prayer. 


218    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

And  a  wholesome  corrective  is  the  Sunday  service 
after  the  sights  of  Lourdes. 

The  little  congregation  was  striking.  Within 
the  altar  railings  stood  two  anciens,  or  elders,  of 
the  church,  middle-aged  men,  tall,  stalwart,  the 
one  fair  as  a  Saxon,  the  other  dark  as  a  Spaniard. 
Both  wore  the  dress  of  the  well-to-do  peasant, 
short  black  alpaca  blouses,  black  cloth  trousers, 
and  spotless  collars  and  cuffs,  and  both  worthily 
represented  those  indomitable  ancestors  who 
neither  wavered  nor  lost  heart  under  direst 
persecution. 

By  the  time  the  pastor  ascended  the  reading- 
desk,  the  cheerful,  well-kept  little  church  was  full, 
the  men  in  black  blouses,  the  women  wearing  neat 
stuff  or  print  gowns,  with  silk  handkerchiefs  tied 
under  the  chin,  widows  and  the  aged,  the  sombre 
black-hooded  garment,  enveloping  head  and 
figure,  of  Huguenot  matrons  of  old — supposed 
to  have  suggested  the  conventual  garb. 

Among  the  rest  were  two  or  three  Catholics, 
peasants  of  the  neighbourhood,  come  to  look  on 
and  listen.  The  simple,  intelligible  service,  the 
quiet  fervour  of  the  assembly,  might  well  impress 
a  sceptical  beholder.  Even  more  impressive  is 
the  inscription  over  the  door.  A  tablet  records 
how  the  first  Protestant  church  was  pulled  down 
by  order  of  the  king  after  the  Revocation  of  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    219 

Edict  of  Nantes,  and  rebuilt  on  the  declaration 
of  religious  liberty  by  the  National  Assembly. 
Gazing  on  that  inscription  and  the  little  crowd 
of  worshippers,  a  sentence  of  Tacitus  came 
into  my  mind.  Recording  how  not  only  the 
biographers  of  good  men  were  banished  or  put 
to  death,  but  their  works  publicly  burnt  by  order 
of  Domitian,  the  historian,  whose  sentences  are 
volumes  condensed,  adds :  "  They  fancied,  for- 
sooth " — he  is  speaking  of  the  tyrant  and  his 
satellites — "  that  all  records  of  these  actions  being 
destroyed,  mankind  could  never  approve  of 
them."  An  illusion  shared  by  enemies  of  intel- 
lectual liberty,  from  the  Caesars  to  their  latest 
imitator,  unhappily  not  wholly  dispelled  in  our 
own  day. 

Whether  the  homeward  journey  is  made  through 
the  Landes  by  way  of  Bayonne  and  Bordeaux,  or 
through  the  Eastern  Pyrenees  by  way  of  Per- 
pignan,  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  scenes 
of  strangest  transformation.  In  the  former  region 
the  agency  has  been  artificial,  the  shifting  sands 
being  fixed  and  solidified  by  plantations  on  a 
gigantic  scale,  and  large  tracts  rendered  fertile  by 
artificial  irrigation;  in  the  latter,  Nature  has 
prepared  the  field,  the  more  laborious  portion  of 
the  husbandman's  task  is  already  done. 


220    IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

"  The  districts  of  sand,  as  white  as  snow  and  so 
loose  as  to  blow,"  seen  by  Arthur  Young  towards 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  can  hardly  be  said 
to  exist  in  our  own  day.  Even  within  twenty-five 
years  the  changes  are  so  great  as  to  render  entire 
regions  hardly  recognizable.  The  stilts,  or 
chanques,  of  which  our  word  "  shanks "  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  origin,  become  rarer  and  rarer. 
The  creation  of  forests  and  sinking  of  wells, 
drainage,  artificial  manures  and  canals  are  rapidly 
fertilizing  a  once  arid  region;  with  the  aspect  of 
the  country  a  proportionate  change  taking  place 
in  the  material  condition  of  the  people. 

No  less  startling  is  the  transformation' of  lagoon 
into  salt  marsh,  and  marsh  into  cultivable  soil, 
witnessed  between  the  Spanish  frontier,  Per- 
pignan  and  Nimes. 

Quitting  Cerbere,  the  little  town  at  which 
travellers  from  Barcelona  re-enter  French 
territory,  we  follow  the  coast,  traversing  a  region 
long  lost  to  fame  and  the  world,  but  boasting  of 
a  brilliant  history  before  the  real  history  of  France 
began. 

We  are  here  in  presence  of  geological  changes 
affected  neither  by  shock  nor  convulsion,  nor  yet 
by  infinitesimally  slow  degrees.  A  few  centuries 
have  sufficed  to  alter  the  entire  contour  of  the 
coast  and  reverse  the  once  brilliant  destinies  of 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    221 

maritime  cities.  With  the  recorded  experience  of 
mediaeval  writers  at  hand,  we  can  localize  lagoons 
and  inland  seas  where  to-day  we  find  belts  of 
luxuriant  cultivation.  In  a  lifetime  falling  short 
of  the  Psalmist's  threescore  years  and  ten  observa- 
tions may  be  made  that  necessitate  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  local  maps. 

The  charming  little  watering-place  of  Banyuls- 
sur-Mer,  reached  soon  after  passing  the  Spanish 
frontier,  is  the  only  place  on  this  coast,  except 
Cette,  without  a  history.  The  town  is  built  in  the 
form  of  an  amphitheatre,  its  lovely  little  bay 
surrounded  by  rich  southern  vegetation.  The 
oleanders  and  magnolias  in  full  bloom,  gardens 
and  vineyards,  are  no  less  strikingly  contrasted 
with  the  barrenness  and  monotony  that  follows, 
than  Banyuls  itself,  spick  and  span,  brand-new, 
with  the  buried  cities  scattered  on  the  way,  ancient 
as  Tyre  and  Sidon,  and  once  as  flourishing. 
There  is  much  sadness  yet  poetic  charm  in  the 
landscape  sweeps  of  silvery-green  olive  or  bluish 
salicornia  against  a  pale-blue  sky,  dull-brown 
fishing  villages  bordering  sleepy  lagoons,  stretches 
of  white  sand,  with  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of 
the  purple,  rock-hemmed  sea.  Little  of  life 
animates  this  coast,  in  many  spots  the  custom- 
house officer  and  a  fisherman  or  two  being  the 
sole  inhabitants,  their  nearest  neighbours  removed 


222     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

from  them  by  many  miles.  Only  the  flamingo, 
the  heron,  and  the  sea-gull  people  these  solitudes, 
within  the  last  few  years  broken  by  the  whistle 
of  the  locomotive.  We  are  following  the  direct 
line  of  railway  between  Barcelona  and  Paris. 

The  first  of  the  buried  cities  is  the  musically- 
named  Elne,  anciently  Illiberis,  now  a  poor  little 
town  of  the  department  of  the  Eastern  Pyrenees, 
hardly,  indeed,  more  than  a  village,  but  boasting 
a  wondrous  pedigree.  We  see  dull-brown  walls, 
ilex  groves,  and  above  low-lying  walls  the  gleam- 
ing sea.  This  apparently  deserted  place  occupies 
the  site  of  city  upon  city.  Seaport,  metropolis, 
emporium  had  here  reached  their  meridian  of 
splendour  before  the  Greek  and  the  Roman  set 
foot  in  Gaul.  Already  in  Pliny's  time  the  glories 
of  the  Elne  had  become  tradition.  We  must  go 
farther  back  than  Phoenician  civilization  for  the 
beginnings  of  this  town,  halting-place  of  Han- 
nibal and  his  army  on  their  march  towards  Rome. 
The  great  Constantine  endeavoured  to  resuscitate 
the  fallen  city,  and  for  a  brief  space  Elne  became 
populous  and  animated.  With  other  once 
flourishing  seaports  it  has  been  gradually  isolated 
from  the  sea,  and  the  same  process  is  still  going  on. 

Just  beyond   Perpignan  a  lofty  tower,  rising 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST    223 

amid  vineyards  and  pastures,  marks  the  site  of 
Ruscino,  another  ancient  city  and  former  seaport. 
The  Tour  de  Roussillon  is  all  that  now  remains 
of  a  place  once  important  enough  to  give  its  name 
to  a  province.  Le  Roussillon,  from  which  was 
formed  the  department  of  the  Pyrenees  Orient- 
ales,  became  French  by  the  treaty  of  the  Pyrenees 
in  1659.  Here  also  the  great  Carthaginian  halted, 
and  here,  we  learn,  he  met  with  a  friendly 
reception. 

Monotonous  as  are  these  wide  horizons  and  vast 
stretches  of  marsh  and  lagoon,  they  appeal  to  the 
lover  of  solitude  and  of  the  more  pensive  aspects 
of  nature.  The  waving  reeds  against  the  pale 
sky,  the  sweeps  of  glasswort  and  terebinth,  show 
delicate  gradations  of  colour;  harmonious,  too,  the 
tints  of  far-off  sea  and  environing  hills.  Not 
cities  only  seem  interred  here  :  the  railway  hurries 
us  through  a  world  in  which  all  is  hushed  and 
inanimate,  as  if,  indeed,  mankind  no  less  than 
good  fortune  had  deserted  it.  The  prevailing 
uniformity  is  broken  by  the  picturesquely  placed 
little  town  of  Salses  and  the  white  cliffs  of 
Leucate.  Strabo  and  Pomponius  Mela  describe 
minutely  the  floating  islands  or  masses  of  marine 
plants  moving  freely  on  the  lake  of  Salses.  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  the  coastline  is  undergoing  slow  but 


224    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

steady  modification,  yet  we  are  in  presence  of 
phenomena  that  engaged  the  attention  of  writers 
two  thousand  years  ago. 

From  this  point  till   we   approach  Cette  the 
region  defies  definition.    It  is  impossible  to  deter- 
mine nicely  where  the   land  ends  and  the  sea 
begins.     The    railway    follows   a    succession    of 
inland  salt  lakes  and  lagoons,  with  isolated  fisher- 
men's cabins,  reminding  us  of  lake-dwellings.    In 
some  places  the  hut  is  approached  by  a  narrow 
strip  of  solid  ground,  on  either  side  surrounded 
by  water,  just  admitting  the  passage  of  a  single 
pedestrian.     The  scene  is  unspeakably  desolate. 
Only   sea-birds   keep   the   fisher-folk   company; 
only  the  railway  recalls  the  busy  world  far  away. 
Of  magnificent  aspect  is  Narbonne,  the  Celtic 
Venice,  as  it  rises  above  the  level  landscape.  The 
great  seaport  described  by  Greek  historians  six 
centuries  before  our  own  era,  the  splendid  capital 
of  Narbonese  Gaul,  rival  of  the  Roman  Nimes 
and  of  the  Greek  Aries,  is  now  as  dull  a  provincial 
town    as    any    throughout    France.     Invasions, 
sieges,  plagues,  incendiaries,  most  of  all  religious 
persecutions,    ruined    the    mediaeval    Narbonne. 
The  Jewish  element  prevailed  in  its  most  pros- 
perous phase,  and  M.  Renan  in  his  history  of 
Averroes  shows  how  much  of  this  prosperity  and 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST  225 

intellectual  pre-eminence  was  due  to  the  Jews. 
The  cruel  edicts  of  Philip  Augustus  against  the 
race   proved   no   less   disastrous   here   than   the 
expulsion  of  Huguenots  elsewhere  later.     The 
decadence    of    Narbonne   as   a   port   is    due   to 
natural  causes.     Formerly  surrounded  by  lagoons 
affording  free  communication  with  the  sea,  the 
Languedocian    Venice    has    gradually    lost    her 
advantageous    position.    The    transitional    stage 
induced  such  unhealthy  climatic  conditions  that 
at  one  period  there  seemed  a  likelihood  of  the 
city  being  abandoned  altogether.    In  proportion 
as    the    marsh    solidified    the    general    health 
improved.    Day  by  day  the  slow  but  sure  process 
continues,  and  when  the  remaining  salt  lakes  shall 
have  become  dry  land,  this  region,  now  barren 
and  desolate,  will  blossom  like  the  rose.     The 
hygienic  and  atmospheric  effects  of  the  Euca- 
lyptus globulus  in  Algeria  are  hardly  more  strik- 
ing  than    the   amelioration   wrought   here   in   a 
natural  way.     The  Algerian  traveller  of  twenty- 
five  years  ago  now  finds  noble  forests  of  blue 
gum  tree,  where,  on  his  first  visit,  his  heart  was 
wrung  by  the  spectacle  of  a  fever-stricken  popula- 
tion.   On  the  coast  of  Languedoc  the  change  has 
been  slower.     It  has  taken  not  only  a  generation 
but  a  century  to  transform  pestilential  tracts  into 
zones  of  healthfulness  and  fertility. 
Q 


226    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

An  interesting  fact,  illustrating  the  effect  of 
physical  agencies  upon  human  affairs,  must  be 
here  mentioned.  Till  within  the  last  few  years 
this  town  counted  a  considerable  Protestant  com- 
munity. The  ravages  of  the  phylloxera  in  the 
neighbouring  vineyards  caused  a  wholesale 
exodus  of  vine-growers  belonging  to  the 
Reformed  Church,  and  in  1886  the  number  had 
dwindled  to  such  an  extent  that  the  services  of  a 
pastor  were  no  longer  required.  The  minister  in 
charge  was  transferred  elsewhere. 

The  dull  little  town  of  Agde  is  another  ancient 
site.  Its  name  is  alike  a  poem  and  a  history.  The 
secure  harbourage  afforded  by  this  sheltered  bay 
won  for  the  place  the  name  of  Good  Fortune, 
dyaOri  TV%TJ,  whence  Agathe,  Agde.  A  Greek 
settlement,  its  fine  old  church  was  in  part  con- 
structed of  the  materials  of  a  temple  to  Diana  of 
Ephesus.  Agde  possesses  interest  of  another 
kind.  It  is  built  of  lava,  the  solitary  peak  rising 
behind  it,  called  Le  Pic  de  St.  Loup,  being  the 
southern  extremity  of  that  chain  of  extinct 
volcanoes  beginning  with  Mont  Mezenc  in  the 
Cantal.  A  pathetic  souvenir  is  attached  to  this 
lonely  crater.  At  a  time  when  geological  ardour 
was  rare,  a  Bishop  of  Agde,  St.  Simon  by  name, 
devoted  years  of  patient  investigation  to  the 


MY  PYRENEAN  VALLEY  AT  LAST     227 

volcanic  rocks  in  his  diocese.  The  result  of  his 
studies  were  recorded  in  letters  to  a  learned 
friend,  but  the  Revolution  stopped  the  poor 
bishop's  discoveries.  He  perished  by  the  guil- 
lotine during  the  Terror.  The  celebrated  founder 
of  socialism  in  France  was  his  nephew. 


Q2 


XI 
AN   OLIVE  FARM   IN  THE  VAR 


AN   OLIVE   FARM   IN   THE   VAR 

THE  friendly  visit  of  a  few  Russian  naval 
officers  lately  put  the  country  into  as  great  a 
commotion  as  a  hostile  invasion.  I  started  south- 
ward from  Lyons  on  the  I2th  October,  1893,  amid 
scenes  of  wholly  indescribable  confusion ;  railway 
stations  a  mere  compact  phalanx  of  excited 
tourists  bound  for  Toulon,  with  no  immediate 
prospect  of  getting  an  inch  farther,  railway 
officials  at  their  wits'  end,  carriage  after  carriage 
hooked  on  to  the  already  enormously  long  train, 
and  yet  crowds  upon  crowds  left  behind.  Every 
train  was,  of  course,  late ;  and  on  the  heels  of  each 
followed  supplementary  ones,  all  packed  to  their 
utmost  capacity.  As  we  steamed  into  the  different 
stations  "  Vive  la  Russie  !  "  greeted  our  ears.  The 
air  seemed  filled  with  the  sound ;  never  surely  was 
such  a  delirium  witnessed  in  France  since  the 
fever  heat  of  1789  ! 

At  Valence,  Montelimar,  Avignon,  Aries,  the 
same  tumult  reigned;  but  before  reaching  the 
second  place,  the  regulation  number  of  carriages, 
twenty-five,  had  been  exceeded,  and  as  hardly  one 

per  cent,  of  the  travellers  alighted,  we  could  only 

231 


232     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

pass  by  the  disconcerted  multitudes  awaiting 
places.  And  a  mixed  company  was  ours — the 
fashionable  world,  select  and  otherwise,  the  demi- 
monde in  silks  and  in  tatters,  musicians,  travelling 
companies  of  actors  and  showmen,  decorated 
functionaries,  children,  poodles,  all  bound  for  the 
Russian  fleet ! 

At  Marseilles,  a  bitter  disappointment  awaited 
some,  I  fear,  many.  No  sooner  were  we  fairly 
within  the  brilliantly-lighted,  crowded  station, 
and  before  the  train  had  come  to  a  standstill,  than 
a  stentorian  voice  was  heard  from  one  end  of  the 
platform  to  the  other,  crying — 

"LOOK  TO  YOUR  PURSES !  " 


And  as  the  gorged  carriages  slowly  discharged 
their  burden,  the  stream  of  passengers  wending 
towards  the  door  marked  "  Way  out,"  a  yet  louder 
and  more  awe-inspiring  voice  came  from  above, 
the  official  being  perched  high  as  an  orator  in  the 
pulpit,  repeating  the  same  words— 

"  ATTENTION  X  VOTRE  PORTE-MONNAIE  !  " 

The  dismay  of  the  thwarted  pickpockets  may  be 
better  imagined  than  described.  Many,  doubtless, 
had  come  from  great  distances,  confident  of  a 
golden  harvest.  Let  us  hope  that  the  authorities 
of  Toulon  were  equally  on  the  alert. 


AN  OLIVE  FARM  IN  THE   VAR    233 

Marseilles  no  more  resembles  Lyons,  Bordeaux, 
Nantes,  than  those  cities  resemble  each  other. 
Less  elegant  than  Lyons,  less  majestic  than 
Bordeaux,  gayer  by  far  than  Nantes,  the  capital 
of  Southern  France  has  a  stamp  of  its  own.  To- 
day, as  three  thousand  years  ago,  Marseilles  may 
be  called  the  threshold  of  the  East.  In  these 
hot,  bustling,  noisy  streets,  Paris  is  quiet  by 
comparison ;  London  a  Trappist  monastery ! 
Orientals,  or  what  our  French  neighbours  call 
exotics,  are  so  common  that  no  one  looks  at 
them.  Japanese  and  Chinese,  Hindus,  Ton- 
quinois,  Annamites,  Moors,  Arabs,  all  are  here, 
and  in  native  dress;  and  writing  letters  in  the 
salon  of  your  hotel,  your  vis-a-vis  at  the  table 
d'hote,  your  fellow  sightseers,  east  and  west, 
to-day  as  of  old,  here  come  into  friendly  contact ; 
and  side  by  side  with  the  East  is  the  glowing  life 
of  the  South.  We  seem  no  longer  in  France,  but 
in  a  great  cosmopolitan  mart  that  belongs  to  the 
whole  world. 

The  Marseillais,  nevertheless,  are  French ;  and 
Marseilles,  to  their  thinking,  is  the  veritable 
metropolis.  "  If  Paris  had  but  her  Cannebiere," 
they  say,  "  she  would  be  a  little  Marseilles !  " 

Superbly  situated,  magnificently  endowed  as  to 
climate,  the  chef-lieu  of  the  Bouches  du  Rhone 
must  be  called  a  slatternly  beauty ;  whilst  embel- 


234    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

lishing  herself,  putting  on  her  jewels  and  splendid 
attire,  she  has  forgotten  to  wash  her  face  and  trim 
her  hair !  Not  in  Horatian  phrase,  dainty  in  her 
neatness,  Marseilles  does  herself  injustice.  Lyons 
is  clean  swept,  spick  and  span  as  a  toy  town; 
Bordeaux  is  coquettish  as  her  charming  Borde- 
laise  ;  Nantes,  certainly,  is  not  particularly  careful 
of  appearances.  But  Marseilles  is  dirty,  unswept, 
littered  from  end  to  end;  you  might  suppose  that 
every  householder  had  just  moved,  leaving  their 
odds  and  ends  in  the  streets,  if,  indeed,  these 
beautifully-shaded  walks  can  be  so  called.  The 
city  in  its  development  has  laid  out  alleys  and 
boulevards  instead  of  merely  making  ways,  with 
the  result  that  in  spite  of  brilliant  sky  and  burning 
sun,  coolness  and  shadow  are  ever  to  be  had.  The 
Cannebiere,  with  its  blue  sky,  glowing  foliage  and 
gay,  nonchalant,  heterogeneous  crowds,  reminds 
me  of  the  Rambla  of  Barcelona.  Indeed,  the  two 
cities  have  many  points  of  resemblance.  Mar- 
seilles is  greatly  changed  from  the  Marseilles  I 
visited  twenty-five  years  ago,  to  say  nothing  of 
Arthur  Young's  description  of  1789.  The  only 
advantage  with  which  he  accredited  the  city  was 
that  of  possessing  newspapers.  Its  port,  he  wrote, 
was  a  horsepond  compared  to  that  of  Bordeaux; 
the  number  of  country  houses  dotting  the  hills 
disappointingly  small.  At  the  present  time, 


AN   OLIVE   FARM   IN   THE   VAR    235 


suburban  Marseilles,  like  suburban  London, 
encroaches  year  by  year  upon  the  country ;  another 
generation,  and  the  sea-coast  from  Toulon  to  the 
Italian  frontier  will  show  one  unbroken  line  of 
country  houses.  Of  this  no  one  can  doubt  who 
sees  what  is  going  on  in  the  way  of  building. 

But  it  is  not  only  by  beautiful  villas  and 
gardens  that  the  city  has  embellished  itself.  What 
with  the  lavishness  of  the  municipality,  public 
companies,  and  the  orthodox,  noble  public  build- 
ings, docks,  warehouses,  schools,  churches, 
gardens,  promenades,  have  rendered  Marseilles 
the  most  sumptuous  French  capital  after  Paris. 
Neither  Lyons,  Bordeaux,  Nantes,  can  compare 
with  it  for  sumptuosity.  In  the  Palais  de  Long- 
champs,  the  splendour  of  municipal  decoration 
reaches  its  acme;  the  horsepond  Arthur  Young 
sneered  at  now  affords  accommodation  of  340 
acres,  with  warehouses,  said  to  be  the  finest  in 
the  world ;  last,  but  not  least,  comes  the  enormous 
Byzantine  Cathedral  not  yet  finished,  built  at  the 
cost  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  sterling.  Other  new 
churches  and  public  buildings  without  number 
have  sprung  up  of  late  years,  the  crowning  glory 
of  Marseilles  being  its  Palais  de  Longchamps. 

This  magnificent  group  of  buildings  may  be 
called  a  much  enlarged  and  much  more  grandiose 
Trocadero.  Worthily  do  these  colossal  Tritons 


236    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

and  sea-horses  commemorate  the  great  achieve- 
ment of  modern  Marseilles;  namely,  the  convey- 
ing of  a  river  to  its  very  doors.  Hither,  over  a 
distance  of  fifty-four  miles,  are  brought  the 
abundant  waters  of  the  Durance;  as  we  stand 
near,  their  cascades  falling  with  the  thunder  of 
our  own  Lodore.  But  having  got  the  river  and 
given  the  citizens  more  than  enough  water  with 
which  to  turn  their  mills,  supply  their  domestic 
wants,  fertilize  suburban  fields  and  gardens,  the 
Town  Council  seem  satisfied.  The  streets  are 
certainly,  one  and  all,  watered  with  rushing 
streams,  greatly  to  the  public  health  and  comfort. 
A  complete  system  of  drainage  is  needed  to 
render  the  work  complete.  When  we  learn  that 
even  Nice  is  not  yet  drained  from  end  to  end, 
we  need  not  be  astonished  at  tardy  progress  else- 
where. Sanitation  is  ever  the  last  thing  thought 
of  by  French  authorities.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
we  saw  two  or  three  men  slowly  sweeping  one 
street.  No  regular  cleaning  seems  to  take  place. 
Get  well  out  of  the  city,  by  the  sea-shore,  or  into 
the  Prado — an  avenue  of  splendid  villas — and  all 
is  swept  and  garnished.  The  central  thorough- 
fares, so  glowing  with  life  and  colour,  and  so 
animated  by  day  and  night,  are  malodorous, 
littered,  dirty.  It  is  a  delightful  drive  by  the  sea, 
over  against  the  Chateau  d'lf,  forts  frowning 


AN   OLIVE  FARM   IN   THE  VAR     237 

above  the  rock,  the  deep  blue  waves,  yellowish- 
brown  shore,  and  green  foliage,  all  in  striking 
contrast. 

We  with  difficulty  realize  that  Marseilles  is  not 
the  second  city  in  France.  The  reason  is  obvious. 
Lyons  lies  less  compactly  together,  its  thickly- 
peopled  Guillotiere  seems  a  town  apart;  the  popu- 
lation of  Lyons,  moreover,  is  a  sedentary  one, 
whilst  the  Marseillais,  being  seafarers,  are  per- 
petually abroad.  The  character,  too,  is  quite 
different,  less  expansive,  less  excitable,  less 
emotional  in  the  great  silk-weaving  capital,  here 
gay,  noisy,  nonchalant.  Nobody  seems  to  find 
the  cares  of  the  day  a  burden,  all  to  have  some  of 
the  sunshine  of  the  place  in  their  composition. 
"Mon  bon,"  a  Marsellais  calls  his  neighbour; 
there  is  no  stillness  anywhere.  Everybody  is 
11  Mon  bon"  to  everybody. 

The  out-of-door,  rollicking,  careless  life,  more 
especially  strikes  a  northerner.  We  seem  here  as 
remote  from  ordinary  surroundings  as  if  suddenly 
transported  to  Benares.  The  commercial  pros- 
perity of  the  first  French  sea-port  is  attested  by 
its  lavish  public  works,  and  number  of  country 
houses,  a  disappointing  handful  in  Arthur 
Young's  time.  Hardly  a  householder,  however 
modest  his  means,  who  does  not  possess  a  cottage 
or  chalet;  the  richer  having  palatial  villas  and 


238    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

gardens.  Nothing  can  convey  a  greater  notion 
of  ease  and  wealth  than  the  prospect  of  suburban 
Marseilles,  its  green  hills,  rising  above  the  sea, 
thickly  dotted  with  summer  houses  in  every  part. 

All  who  wish  to  realize  the  advance  of  French 
cities  since  1870-71  should  visit  Marseilles. 
Only  those  who  knew  it  long  ago  can  measure  the 
change,  and  greater  changes  still  are  necessary 
ere  its  sanitary  conditions  match  climate  and 
situation. 

From  Marseilles  to  Nice,  from  the  land  of  the 
olive  to  that  of  the  palm,  is  a  long  and  wearisome 
journey.  That  tyrannical  monopoly,  the  Paris- 
Lyon  -  Mediterranee  Railway  Company,  gives 
only  slow  trains,  except  to  travellers  provided 
with  through  tickets;  and  these  so  inconveniently 
arranged,  that  travellers  unprovided  with  refresh- 
ments, have  no  opportunity  of  procuring  any  on 
the  way.  Whenever  we  travel  by  railway  in 
France  we  are  reminded  of  the  crying  need  for 
competition.  The  all-omnipotent  P.-L.-M.  does 
as  it  pleases,  and  it  is  quite  useless  for  travellers 
to  complain.  Every  inch  of  the  way  points  to  the 
future  of  the  Riviera — a  future  not  far  off.  A  few 
years  hence  and  the  sea-coast  from  Marseilles  to 
Mentone  will  be  one  unbroken  line  of  hotels  and 
villas.  The  process  is  proceeding  at  a  rapid  rate. 
When  Arthur  Young  made  this  journey  a  century 


AN  OLIVE   FARM   IN  THE   VAR    239 

ago,  he  described  the  country  around  Toulon 
thus :  "  Nine-tenths  are  waste  mountain,  and  a 
wretched  country  of  pines,  box,  and  miserable 
aromatics."  At  the  present  time,  the  brilliant  red 
soil,  emerald  crops,  and  gold  and  purple  leafage 
of  stripped  vine,  make  up  a  picture  of  wondrous 
fertility.  At  every  point  we  see  vineyards  of 
recent  creation ;  whilst  not  an  inch  of  soil  between 
the  olive  trees  is  wasted.  On  the  28th  of  October 
the  landscape  was  bright  with  autumn  crops,  some 
to  be  repique,  or  planted  out  according  to  the 
Chinese  system  before  mentioned. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  stranger  at  Nice 
is  its  Italian  population.  These  black-eyed,  dark- 
complexioned,  raven-haired,  easy-going  folks 
form  as  distinct  a  type  as  the  fresh-complexioned, 
blue-eyed  Alsatian.  That  the  Ni^ois  are  French 
at  heart  is  self-evident,  and  no  wonder,  when  we 
compare  their  present  condition  with  that  of  the 
past.  We  see  no  beggars  or  ragged,  wretched- 
looking  people.  If  the  municipal  authorities  have 
set  themselves  the  task  of  putting  down  mendicity, 
they  have  succeeded.  French  enterprise,  French 
capital  is  enriching  the  population  from  one  end 
of  the  Alpes  Maritimes  to  the  other.  At  the 
present  time  there  must  be  tens  of  thousands  of 
workmen  employed  in  the  building  of  hotels  and 
villas  between  Marseilles  and  Ventimille.  That 


240    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  Riviera  will  finally  be  overbuilt  no  one  can 
doubt ;  much  of  the  original  beauty  of  the  country 
is  already  destroyed  by  this  piling  up  of  bricks 
and  mortar,  more  beauty  is  doomed.  But  mean- 
time work  is  brisk,  wages  are  high,  and  the  Post 
Office  savings  bank  and  private  banks  tell  their 
own  tale. 

Of  course  the  valetudinarians  contribute  to  the 
general  prosperity,  a  prosperity  which  it  is  difficult 
for  residents  in  an  English  watering-place  to 
realize.  Thus  I  take  up  a  Hastings  newspaper  to 
find  a  long  list  of  lodging-house  keepers  sum- 
moned for  non-payment  of  taxes.  Arrived  at 
Nice,  a  laundress  employed  by  my  hostess  imme- 
diately came  to  see  if  I  had  any  clothes  for  her. 
On  bringing  back  the  linen  she  deposited  it  in  my 
room,  saying  I  could  pay  her  when  fetching  the 
next  bundle.  I  let  her  go,  but  called  her  back, 
thinking  that  perhaps  the  poor  woman  had  earned 
nothing  for  months  and  was  in  distress.  My 
hostess  afterwards  informed  me  with  a  smile  that 
this  good  woman  had  £2,500  in  the  bank.  I  could 
multiply  instances  in  point. 

If  the  condition  of  the  working  classes  has 
immensely  improved,  the  cost  of  living  has  not 
stood  still.  A  householder  informed  me  that  prices 
of  provisions,  servants3  wages,  house  rent  and 
other  items  of  domestic  economy  have  tripled 


AN   OLIVE   FARM   IN   THE   VAR    241 

within  the  last  twenty  years.  There  is  every 
prospect  that  this  increase  will  continue.  Last 
winter  hotels  and  boarding-houses  at  Nice  were 
all  full;  fast  as  new  ones  are  built,  they  fill  to 
overflowing.  And,  of  course,  the  majority  of 
visitors  are  rich.  No  others  should  come ;  they  are 
not  wanted. 

In  studying  the  rural  population  we  must  bear 
in  mind  one  fact — namely,  the  line  of  demarcation 
separating  the  well-to-do  peasants  of  the  plain 
from  the  poor  and  frugal  mountaineer.  Follow 
the  mule  track  from  Mentone  to  Castillon,  and  we 
find  a  condition  of  things  for  squalor  and  poverty 
unmatched  throughout  France.  Visit  an  olive- 
grower  in  the  valley  of  the  Var,  and  we  are  once 
more  amid  normal  conditions  of  peasant  property. 
My  first  visit  was  to  the  land  of  Goshen. 

Provided  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a 
farmer,  I  set  off  for  the  village  of  St.  Martin  du 
Var,  a  village  of  five  hundred  and  odd  souls, 
only  within  the  last  year  or  two  accessible  by  rail- 
way. The  new  line,  which  was  to  have  connected 
Nice  with  Digne  and  Cap,  had  been  stopped  short 
half-way,  the  enterprising  little  company  who  pro- 
jected it  being  thereby  brought  to  the  verge  of 
ruin.  This  fiasco,  due,  I  am  told,  to  the  jealous 
interference  of  the  P.-L.-M.,  is  a  great  misfortune 
to  travellers,  the  line  partially  opened  up  leading 


242    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

through  a  most  wildly  picturesque  and  lovely 
region,  and  being  also  of  great  commercial  and 
strategic  importance.  But  that  terrible  monopoly, 
the  Paris-Lyon-Mediterranee,  will  tolerate  no 
rivals.  Folks  bound  from  Gap  to  Nice  must  still 
make  the  long  round  by  way  of  Marseilles  in  order 
to  please  the  Company ;  merchandise — and,  in 
case  of  a  war  with  Italy,  which  may  Heaven  avert ! 
— soldiers  and  ammunition  must  do  the  same. 

The  pretty  new  "  Gare  du  Sud "  invites 
patronage,  and  three  services  are  performed  daily. 
On  this  little  line  exists  no  third  class.  I  imagine, 
then,  that  either  the  very  poor  are  too  poor  to  take 
train  at  all,  or  that  there  are  none  unable  to  pay 
second-class  fare.  In  company  of  priests, 
peasants,  and  soldiers,  I  took  a  second-class  place, 
the  guard  joining  us  and  comfortably  reading  a 
newspaper  as  soon  as  we  were  fairly  off. 

It  is  a  superb  little  journey  to  St.  Martin  du 
Var.  The  line  may  be  described  as  a  succession 
of  tunnels,  our  way  lying  between  lofty  limestone 
cliffs  and  the  Var,  at  the  present  time  almost  dry. 
As  we  slowly  advance,  the  valley  widens,  and 
on  either  side  are  broad  belts  of  verdure  and 
fertility;  fields,  orchards,  gardens,  olive  trees 
feathering  the  lower  slopes,  here  and  there,  little 
villages  perched  high  above  the  valley.  One 
charming  feature  of  the  landscape  is  the  aspen ;  so 


AN  OLIVE   FARM  IN  THE  VAR    243 

silvery  were  its  upper  leaves  in  the  sun  that  at 
first  I  took  them  for  snow-white  blossoms.  These 
verdant  stretches  on  either  side  of  the  river  were 
formerly  mere  waste,  redeemed  and  rendered 
cultivable  by  means  of  dykes. 

My  destination  is  reached  in  an  hour,  a  charm- 
ingly placed  village  amid  beautiful  mountain 
scenery,  over  against  it  towering  the  hamlet  of  La 
Roquette,  apparently  inaccessible  as  cloudland. 
Here  a  tributary  stream  joins  the  Var,  the  long 
winding  valley,  surrounded  by  lofty  crags  and 
olive-clad  slopes,  affording  a  delightful  and  most 
exhilarating  prospect.  The  weather  on  this  2Oth 
of  October  was  that  of  a  perfect  day  in  July. 

St.  Martin  du  Var  has  its  Mairie,  handsome 
communal  schools,  and  large  public  walks  or 
recreation  ground,  a  parallelogram  planted  with 
trees.  The  place  has  a  neglected,  Italian  aspect; 
at  the  same  time  an  aspect  of  ease  and  content- 
ment. The  black-eyed,  olive-complexioned, 
Italian-looking  children  are  uniformly  well 
dressed,  with  good  shoes  and  stockings.  French 
children,  even  of  the  poorest  class,  are  always 
decently  shod. 

I  found  my  host  at  dinner  with  his  wife,  little 
daughter,  and  sister-in-law.  The  first  impression 
of  an  uninitiated  traveller  would  be  of  poverty. 
The  large  bare  kitchen  was  unswept  and  untidy; 


R  2 


244    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  family  dishes — soup,  vegetables,  olives,  good 
white  bread,  wine — were  placed  on  the  table 
without  cloth  or  table-cover.  As  will  be  seen, 
these  hard-working,  frugal  people  were  rich;  in 
England  they  would  have  servants  to  wait  upon 
them,  fine  furniture,  and  wear  fashionable  clothes. 
My  letter  of  introduction  slowly  read  and  digested, 
the  head  of  the  family  placed  himself  at  my  dis- 
posal. We  set  off  on  a  round  of  inspection,  the 
burning  mid-day  sun  here  tempered  by  a  delicious 
breeze. 

We  first  visited  the  olive-presses  and  corn-mill 
—this  farmer  was  village  miller  as  well  as  olive 
grower — all  worked  by  water-power  and  erected 
by  himself  at  a  heavy  outlay.  Formerly  these 
presses  and  mills  were  worked  by  horses  and 
mules  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned  thresh- 
ing-machines, but  in  Provence  as  in  Brittany, 
progress  is  now  the  order  of  the  day. 

In  order  to  supply  these  mills,  a  little  canal 
was  dug  at  my  host's  own  expense,  and  made  to 
communicate  with  the  waters  of  the  Var;  thus  a 
good  supply  is  always  at  hand. 

The  enormous  olive-presses  and  vats  are  now 
being  got  in  for  the  first  or  October  harvest.  This 
is  the  harvest  of  windfalls  or  fallen  fruit,  green 
or  black  as  the  case  may  be,  and  used  for  making 
an  inferior  kind  of  oil.  The  second  harvest  or 


AN   OLIVE  FARM   IN  THE  VAR    245 

gathering  of  the  olives  remaining  on  the  trees 
takes  place  in  April.  Linen  is  spread  below,  and 
the  berries  gently  shaken  off.  I  may  add  that  the 
periods  of  olive  harvests  vary  in  different  regions, 
often  being  earlier  or  later.  An  olive  tree  pro- 
duces on  an  average  a  net  return  of  twelve  francs, 
the  best  returns  being  alternate  or  biennial;  the 
roots  are  manured  from  time  to  time,  otherwise 
the  culture  is  inexpensive.  The  trees  are  of  great 
age  and,  indeed,  are  seldom  known  to  die.  The 
"  immortal  olive  "  is,  indeed,  no  fiction.  In  this 
especial  district  no  olive  trees  have,  within  living 
memory,  been  killed  by  frost,  as  was  the  case  in 
Spain  some  years  ago.  Nevertheless,  the  peaks 
around  St.  Martin  du  Var  are  tipped  with  snow 
in  winter.  The  olive  harvests  and  necessary 
preparations  require  a  large  number  of  hands,  the 
wages  of  men  averaging  three  francs,  of  women, 
the  half.  Thus  at  the  time  I  write  of,  day 
labourers  in  remote  regions  of  Provence  receive 
just  upon  fourteen  shillings  and  sixpence  per 
week;  whereas  I  read  in  the  English  papers  that 
Essex  farmers  are  reducing  the  pittance  of  twelve 
and  even  ten  shillings  per  week  for  able-bodied 
men. 

Ten  days  later,  my  cicerone  said  that  the  first 
harvest  would  be  in  active  progress,  and  he  most 
cordially  invited  me  to  revisit  him  for  the  purpose 


246    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

of  looking  on.  From  the  lees  of  the  crushed 
berries  a  third  and  much  inferior  oil  is  made  and 
used  in  the  manufacture  of  soap,  just  as  what  is 
called  piquette  or  sour  wine  is  made  in  Brittany 
from  the  lees  of  crushed  grapes.  I  was  assured 
by  this  farmer  that  the  impurity  of  olive  oil  we  so 
often  complain  of  in  England,  arises  from  adult- 
eration at  the  hands  of  retailers.  Table  oil  as  it 
issues  from  the  presses  of  the  grower  is  absolutely 
pure;  merchants  add  inferior  qualities  or  poppy 
oil,  described  by  me  in  an  earlier  page,  and  which 
my  present  host  looked  upon  with  supreme  con- 
tempt. The  olive,  with  the  vine  and  tobacco, 
attains  the  maximum  of  agricultural  profits.  This 
farmer  alone  sells  oil  to  the  annual  value  of 
several  thousand  pounds,  and  to  the  smaller 
owner  also  it  is  the  principal  source  of  income. 
Peasant  owners  or  tenants  of  an  acre  or  two  grow 
a  little  corn  as  well,  this  chiefly  for  their  own 
use. 

The  interior  of  the  corn-mill  presented  an  amus- 
ing scene.  Two  or  three  peasants  were  squabbling 
with  my  host's  subordinate  over  their  sacks  of 
flour;  one  might  have  supposed  from  the  commo- 
tion going  on  and  the  general  air  of  vindictive 
remonstrance  that  we  were  suddenly  transported 
to  a  seigneurial  mill.  A  few  conciliatory  words 
from  the  master  put  all  straight,  and  soon  after 


AN   OLIVE   FARM   IN   THE   VAR    247 

we  saw  the  good  folks,  one  of  them  an  old  woman, 
trotting  off  on  donkeys  with  their  sack  of  corn 
slung  before  them.  I  need  hardly  say  that  the 
talk  of  these  country-people  among  themselves  is 
always  in  patois,  not  a  word  of  which  is  intelligible 
to  the  uninitiated. 

Just  above  the  mills  are  groves  of  magnificent 
old  olive  trees,  and  alongside  the  little  railway 
were  bright  strips  of  lucerne  and  pasture,  folks 
here  and  there  getting  in  their  tiny  crops  of 
hay. 

The  iron  road  is  not  yet  regarded  as  an  unmixed 
good.  My  host  told  me  that  local  carters  and 
carriers  had  been  obliged  in  consequence  to  sell 
their  horses  and  carts  and  betake  themselves  to 
day  labour.  Such  drawbacks  are,  of  course, 
inevitable,  but  the  ulterior  advantage  effected  by 
the  railway  is  unquestionable.  I  should  say  that 
nowhere  are  life  and  property  safer  than  in  these 
mountain-hemmed  valleys.  The  landlady  of  the 
little  hotel  at  St.  Martin  du  Var  assured  me  that 
she  always  left  her  front  door  open  all  night. 
Nothing  had  ever  happened  to  alarm  her  but  the 
invasion  of  three  English  ladies  at  midnight,  one 
of  these  of  gigantic  stature  and  armed  with  a  huge 
stick.  The  trio  were  making  a  pedestrian  journey 
across  country,  apparently  taking  this  security  for 
granted.  Neither  brigands  nor  burglars  could 


248    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

have  given  the  poor  woman  a  greater  fright  than 
the  untimely  appearance  of  my  countrywomen. 

It  was  now  too  hot  to  visit  the  open  tracts  of 
pasture  and  cultivation  alongside  the  Var.  The 
farmer's  wife  proposed  a  shady  walk  to  a  neigh- 
bouring farm  instead,  our  errand  being  to  procure 
milk  for  my  five  o'clock  tea.  Without  hat  or 
umbrella,  my  companion  set  off,  chatting  as  we 
went.  She  explained  to  me  that  on  Sundays  she 
wore  bonnet  and  mantle  after  the  fashion  of  a 
bourgeoise;  in  other  words,  she  dressed  like  a 
lady,  but  that  neither  in  summer  nor  winter  at  any 
other  time  did  she  cover  her  head.  She  was  a 
pleasant-mannered,  intelligent,  affable  woman, 
almost  toothless,  as  are  so  many  well-to-do  middle- 
aged  folks  in  France.  Dentists  must  fare  badly 
throughout  the  country.  No  one  ever  seems  to 
have  a  guinea  to  spend  upon  false  teeth. 

We  were  soon  out  of  the  village,  and  passing 
the  pretty  garden  of  the  Gendarmerie,  reached 
a  scene  of  unimaginable,  unforgettable  beauty. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  splendour  of  the  olive 
trees  set  around  a  wide,  brilliantly  green  meadow; 
near  the  farmhouse  groves  of  pomegranate, 
orange  and  lemon  with  ripening  fruit;  beside 
these,  medlar  and  hawthorn  trees  (cratcegus 
azarolus],  the  golden  leafage  and  coral-red  fruit  of 
the  latter  having  a  striking  effect;  beyond,  silvery 


AN  OLIVE  FARM  IN  THE  VAR    249 

peaks,  and,  above  all,  a  heaven  of  warm,  yet  not 
too  dazzling  blue.  At  the  farther  end  of  the 
meadow,  in  which  a  solitary  cow  grazed  at  will,  a 
labourer  was  preparing  a  ribbon-like  strip  of  land 
for  corn,  beside  him,  pretending  to  work  too,  his 
little  son  of  five  years.  My  hostess  held  up  her 
jug  and  stated  her  errand,  proposing  that  the  cow 
should  be  milked  a  trifle  earlier  in  order  to  suit 
my  convenience.  The  man  good-naturedly  re- 
plied that,  as  far  as  the  matter  concerned  him- 
self, he  was  agreeable  enough,  but  that  the  cow 
was  not  so  easily  to  be  put  out  of  her  way.  She 
was  milked  regularly  as  clockwork  at  a  quarter 
to  five,  the  clock  had  only  just  struck  four;  he 
might  leave  his  work  and  take  her  home,  but  not 
a  drop  of  milk  would  she  give  before  the  proper 
time !  Leaving  our  jug,  we  roamed  about  this 
little  paraHise,  unwilling  to  quit  a  scene  of 
unblemished  beauty.  A  more  bewitching  spot  I 
do  not  recall ;  and  it  seemed  entirely  shut  off  from 
the  world,  on  all  sides,  unbroken  quiet,  nothing 
to  mar  the  exquisiteness  of  emerald  turf,  glossy 
foliage  of  orange  and  lemon  trees,  silvery  olive 
in  striking  contrast,  and  above,  a  cloudless  sky. 
In  the  heart  of  a  primeval  forest  we  could  not 
feel  more  alone. 

The  thought  occurred  to  me  how  perfect  were 
such  a  holiday  resort  could  a  clean  little  lodging 


250    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

be  found  near !  With  some  attention  to  clean- 
liness and  sanitation,  the  little  hotel  at  St.  Martin 
du  Var  might  satisfy  the  unf astidious.  I  am  bound 
to  admit  that  in  French  phrase  it  leaves  much  to 
desire. 

My  host  gave  me  a  good  deal  of  interesting 
information  about  the  place  and  the  people. 
Excellent  communal  schools  with  lay  teachers  of 
both  sexes  have  been  opened  under  French 
regime;  and  the  village  of  five  hundred  and  odd 
souls  has,  of  course,  its  Mairie,  Hotel  de  Ville, 
and  Gendarmerie,  governing  itself  after  the 
manner  of  French  villages 

Whilst  the  ladies  of  the  house  chatted  with  me 
they  knitted  away  at  socks  and  stockings,  in 
coarse,  bright-coloured  wool.  Such  articles  are 
never  bought,  the  home-made  substitute  being 
much  more  economical  in  the  end.  As  an  instance 
of  the  solid  comfort  of  these  apparently  frugal 
folks,  let  me  mention  their  homespun  linen  sheets. 
My  hostess  showed  me  some  coarse  bed-linen 
lately  woven  for  her  in  the  village.  Calico  sheets, 
she  said,  were  much  cheaper,  but  she  preferred 
this  durable  home-spun  even  at  three  times  the 
price.  An  old  woman  in  the  village  still  plied 
the  loom,  working  up  neighbours'  materials  at 
three  francs  a  day.  The  flax  has  to  be  pur- 
chased also,  so  that  the  homespun  sheet  is  a 


AN   OLIVE   FARM   IN   THE   VAR    251 

luxury;  "and  at  the  same  time,"  the  housewife 
added,  "  a  work  of  charity.  This  poor  old  woman 
lives  by  her  loom.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  help  her 
to  a  mouthful  of  bread/5 

The  moon  had  risen  when  I  took  leave,  hostess, 
little  daughter,  and  sister  all  accompanying  me  to 
the  station,  reiterating  their  wish  to  see  me  again. 
Nothing,  indeed,  would  have  been  pleasanter 
than  to  idle  away  weeks  amid  this  adorable 
scenery  and  these  charming  people.  But  life  is 
short  and  France  is  immense.  The  genially 
uttered  au  revoir  becomes  too  often  a  mere  figure 
of  speech. 

I  add,  by  the  way,  that  the  little  daughter,  now 
trotting  daily  to  the  village  school,  is  sure  to  have 
a  handsome  dowry  by  and  by.  Four  thousand 
pounds  is  no  unusual  portion  of  a  rich  peasant's 
daughter  in  these  regions.  As  an  old  resident  at 
Nice  informed  me,  "  The  peasants  are  richer  than 
the  bourgeoisie  "  —as  they  deserve  to  be,  seeing 
their  self-denial  and  thrift. 


XII 

PESSICARZ  AND  THE   SUICIDES' 
CEMETERY 


PESSICARZ    AND    THE    SUICIDES' 
CEMETERY 

PESSICARZ  is  a  hamlet  not  mentioned  in  either 
French  or  English  guide-books;  yet  the  drive 
thither  is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  regulation 
excursions  given  in  tourists'  itineraries.  The  road 
winds  in  corkscrew  fashion  above  the  exquisite 
bay  and  city,  gleaming  as  if  built  of  marble,  amid 
scenes  of  unbroken  solitude.  Between  groves  of 
veteran  olives  and  rocks  rising  higher  and  higher, 
we  climb  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  then  leaving 
behind  us  the  wide  panorama  of  Nice,  Cimiez, 
the  sea,  and  villa-dotted  hills,  take  a  winding 
inland  road,  as  beautiful  as  can  be  imagined. 
Here,  nestled  amid  chestnut  woods,  lay  the  little 
farm  I  had  come  to  see,  consisting  of  three 
hectares  let  at  a  rent  of  five  hundred  francs 
(between  seven  and  eight  acres,  rented  at  twenty 
pounds  a  year),  the  products  being  shared  between 
owner  and  tenant.  This  modified  system  of 
metayage  or  half  profits  is  common  here,  and 
certainly  affords  a  stepping-stone  to  better  things. 
By  dint  of  uncompromising  economy,  the  metayer 
may  ultimately  become  a  small  owner. 

255 


256    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

The    farmhouse    was    substantially    built    and 
occupied  by  both  landlord  and  tenant,  the  latter 
with  his  family  living  on  the  ground  floor.    This 
arrangement    probably    answers    two    purposes, 
economy  is  effected,  and  fraud  prevented  on  the 
part  of  the  metayer.     Pigs  and  poultry  are  noisy 
animals,    and   if   a   dishonest  tenant  wanted   to 
smuggle  any  of  these  away  by  night,  they  would 
certainly    betray    him.     The    housewife,    in    the 
absence  of  her  husband,  received  me  very  kindly. 
I  was  of  course  introduced  by  a  neighbour,  who 
explained  my  errand,  and  she  at  once  offered  to 
show  me  round.    She  was  a  sturdy,  good-natured- 
looking  woman,  very  well-dressed  and  speaking 
French  fairly.     The  first  thing  she  did  was  to 
show  me  her  poultry,  of  which  she  was  evidently 
very  proud.     This  she  accomplished  by  calling 
out  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Poules,  poules,  poules " 
("  chickens,  chickens,  chickens  "),  as  if  addressing 
children,  whereupon  they  came  fluttering  out  of 
the  chestnut  woods,  fifty  or  more,  some  of  fine 
breed.    These  fowls  are  kept  for  laying,  and  not 
for  market,  the  eggs  being  sent  daily  into  Nice. 
She  then  asked   me  indoors,  the  large  kitchen 
being  on  one  side  of  the  door,  the  outhouses  on 
the  other.     Beyond  the  kitchen  was  a  large  bed- 
room,   her    children,     she    explained,    sleeping 
upstairs.     Both  rooms  were  smoke-dried  to  the 


THE   SUICIDES'    CEMETERY       257 

colour  of  mahogany,  unswept  and  very  untidy, 
but  the  good  woman  seemed  quite  sensible  of 
these  disadvantages  and  apologized  on  account  of 
narrow  space.  A  large  supply  of  clothes  hung 
upon  pegs  in  the  bed-chamber,  and  it  possessed 
also  a  very  handsome  old  upright  clock.  The 
kitchen,  besides  stores  of  cooking  utensils,  had  a 
stand  for  best  china,  and  on  the  walls  were 
numerous  unframed  pictures.  I  mention  these 
trifling  details  to  show  that  even  among  the  poorer 
peasant  farmers  something  is  found  for  ornament ; 
they  do  not  live  as  Zola  would  have  us  believe, 
for  sordid  gains  alone. 

We  next  visited  the  pigs,  of  which  she  pos- 
sessed about  a  dozen  in  three  separate  styes. 
These  are  fed  only  upon  grain  and  the  kitchen 
wash  supplied  from  hotels;  but  she  assured  me 
that  the  disgusting  story  I  had  heard  at  Nice  was 
true.  There  are  certain  pork-rearing  establish- 
ments in  the  department  at  which  carrion  is 
purchased  and  boiled  down  for  fattening  pigs. 
My  hostess  seemed  quite  alive  to  the  unwhole- 
someness  of  such  a  practice,  and  we  had  a  long 
talk  about  pigs,  of  which  I  happen  to  know  some- 
thing; that  they  are  dirt-loving  animals  is  quite  a 
mistake ;  none  more  thoroughly  enjoy  a  good  litter 
of  clean  straw.  I  was  glad  to  find  this  good 
woman  entirely  of  the  same  opinion.  She 


258    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

informed  me  with  evident  satisfaction  that  fresh 
straw  was  always  thrown  down  on  one  side  of  the 
piggery  at  night,  and  that  the  animals  always 
selected  it  for  repose. 

The  first  lot  were  commodiously  housed,  but  I 
reasoned  with  her  with  regard  to  the  other  two,  the 
pig-styes  being  mere  caverns  without  light  or  air, 
and  the  poor  creatures  grunting  piteously  to  be 
let  out.  She  told  me  that  they  were  always  let 
out  at  sundown,  and  heard  what  I  had  to  say  about 
pigs  requiring  air,  let  us  hope  to  some  purpose. 
Certainly,  departmental  professors  have  an  uphill 
task  before  them  in  out-of-the-way  regions. 
These  poor  people  are  said  to  be  extremely  frugal 
as  a  rule,  but  too  apt  to  squander  their  years' 
savings  at  a  paternal  fete,  wedding  or  any  other 
festivity.  Generations  must  elapse  ere  they  are 
raised  to  the  level  of  the  typical  French  peasant. 
On  the  score  of  health  they  may  compare  favour- 
ably with  any  race.  A  fruit  and  vegetable  diet 
seems  sufficient  in  this  climate.  Besides  her 
poultry  and  pigs  my  farmeress  had  not  much  to 
show  me ;  but  a  plot  of  flowers  for  market,  a  little 
corn,  and  a  few  olive  trees  added  grist  to  the  mill. 
On  the  whole,  want  of  comfort,  cleanliness,  and 
order  apart,  I  should  say  that  even  such  a  con- 
dition contrasts  favourably  with  that  of  an  English 
agricultural  labourer.  Without  doubt,  were  we  to 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      259 

inquire  closely  into  matters,  we  should  discover  a 
sum  of  money  invested  or  laid  by  for  future 
purchases  utterly  beyond  the  reach  of  a  Suffolk 
ploughman. 

Just  below  the  little  farm  I  visited  a  philan- 
thropic experiment  interesting  to  English  visitors. 
This  was  an  agricultural  orphanage  founded  by 
an  Englishman  two  years  before,  seventeen  waifs 
and  strays  having  been  handed  over  to  him  by  the 
Municipal  Council  of  Nice.  The  education  of 
the  poor  little  lads  is  examined  once  a  year  by  a 
school  inspector,  in  other  respects  the  proteges  are 
left  to  their  new  patron.  Here  they  are  taught 
household  and  farm  work,  fruit  and  flower  culture, 
the  business  of  the  dairy,  carpentering,  and  other 
trades;  being  afterwards  placed  out.  I  question 
whether  an  English  Board  of  Guardians  would  so 
readily  hand  over  seventeen  workhouse  lads  to  a 
foreigner,  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Nic^ois 
authorities  will  have  no  reason  to  regret  their  con- 
fidence. The  boys  do  no  work  on  Sundays,  and 
once  a  year  have  a  ten  days'  tramp  in  the  country ; 
the  buildings  are  spacious  and  airy,  but  I  was 
sorry  to  see  a  plank-bed  used  as  a  punishment. 
Indeed,  I  should  say  that  the  system  pursued 
savours  too  much  of  the  military.  Here,  be  it 
remembered,  no  juvenile  criminals  are  under 

restraint,    only   foundlings   guilty   of   burdening 
s  2 


260    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

society.  Whether  this  school  exists  still  I  know 
not. 

Very  different  was  the  impression  produced  by 
the  State  Horticultural  College  recently  opened 
at  Antibes. 

Around  the  lovely  little  bay  the  country  still 
remains  pastoral  and  unspoiled;  a  mile  or  two 
from  the  railway  station  and  we  are  in  the  midst 
of  rural  scenes,  tiny  farms  border  the  road, 
patches  of  corn,  clover,  vineyard,  and  flower- 
garden — flowers  form  the  chief  harvest  of  these 
sea-board  peasants — orange,  lemon  and  olive 
groves  with  here  and  there  a  group  of  palms, 
beyond  these  the  violet  hills  and  dazzling  blue 
sea,  such  is  the  scenery,  and  could  a  decent  little 
lodging  be  found  in  its  midst,  the  holiday  resort 
were  perfect. 

One  drawback  to  existence  is  the  treatment  of 
animals.  As  I  drove  towards  the  college  a 
countryman  passed  with  a  cart  and  pair  of  horses, 
the  hindmost  had  two  raw  places  on  his  haunches 
as  large  as  a  penny  piece.  I  hope  and  believe 
that  in  England  such  an  offender  would  have 
got  seven  days'  imprisonment.  The  Italians,  as 
we  all  know,  have  no  feeling  for  animals,  and 
the  race  here  is  semi-Italian — wholly  so,  if  we 
may  judge  by  physiognomy  and  complexion. 

Until    the    foundation    of    the    Horticultural 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY       261 

College  here,  the  only  one  in  existence  on  French 
soil  was  that  of  Versailles.  Whilst  farm-schools 
have  been  opened  in  various  parts  of  the  country, 
and  special  branches  have  their  separate  institu- 
tions, the  teaching  of  horticulture  remained  some- 
what in  abeyance.  Forestry  is  studied  at  Nancy, 
husbandry  in  general  at  Rennes,  Grignan,  and 
Amiens,  the  culture  of  the  vine  at  Montpellier, 
drainage  and  irrigation  at  Quimperle,  all  these 
great  schools  being  made  accessible  to  poorer 
students  by  means  of  scholarships. 

In  no  other  region  of  France  could  a  Horti- 
cultural College  be  so  appropriately  placed  as  in 
the  department  of  the  Alpes  Maritimes.  It  is  not 
only  one  vast  flower-garden,  but  at  the  same  time 
a  vast  conservatory,  the  choice  flowers  exported 
for  princely  tables  in  winter  being  all  reared  under 
glass.  How  necessary,  then,  that  every  detail  of 
this  delightful  and  elaborate  culture  should  be 
taught  the  people,  whose  mainstay  it  is,  a  large 
proportion  being  as  entirely  dependent  upon 
flowers  as  the  honey  bee  !  Here,  and  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Nice,  they  are  cultivated  for  market 
and  exportation,  not  for  perfume  distilleries  as  at 
Grasse. 

The  State  School  of  Antibes  was  created  by 
the  Minister  of  Agriculture  in  1891,  and  is  so 
unlike  anything  of  the  kind  in  England  that  a 


262    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

brief  description  will  be  welcome.  The  first  point 
to  be  noted  is  its  essentially  democratic  spirit. 
When  did  a  farm-labourer's  son  among  ourselves 
learn  any  more  of  agriculture  than  his  father  or 
fellow-workmen  could  teach  him?  At  Antibes,  as 
in  the  numerous  farm-schools  (fermes-Scoles)  now 
established  throughout  France,  the  pupils  are 
chiefly  recruited  from  the  peasant  class. 

How,   will   it  be   asked,    can   a   small   tenant 
farmer  or  owner  of  three  or  four  acres  afford  to 
lose  his  son's  earnings  as  soon  as  he  quits  school, 
much  less  to  pay  even  a  small  sum  for  his  educa- 
tion ?    The  difficulty  is  met  thus  :  in  the  first  place, 
the  yearly  sum  for  board,  lodging  and  teaching 
is  reduced  to  the  minimum,  viz.  five  hundred  francs 
a  year;  in  the  second,  large  numbers  of  scholar- 
ships are  open  to  pupils  who  have  successfully 
passed  the  examination  of  primary  schools,  and 
whose  parents  can  prove  their  inability  to  pay  the 
fees.    No  matter  how  poor  he  may  be,  the  French 
peasant  takes  a  long  look  ahead.     He  makes  up 
his  mind  to  forfeit  his  son's  help  or  earnings  for 
a  year  or  two  in  view  of  the  ulterior  advantage. 
A  youth  having  studied  at  Antibes,  would  come 
out  with  instruction  worth  much  more  than  the 
temporary  loss  of  time  and  money.    That  parents 
do  reason  in  this  way  is  self-evident.     On  the 
occasion  of  my  visit,  of  the  twenty-seven  students 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      263 

by  far  the  larger  proportion  were  exhibitioners, 
sons  of  small  owners  or  tenants.  Lads  are 
admitted  from  fourteen  years  and  upwards, 
and  must  produce  the  certificate  of  primary 
studies,  answering  to  that  of  our  Sixth  Standard, 
or  pass  an  entrance  examination.  The  school  is 
under  State  supervision,  the  teaching  staff  consist- 
ing of  certificated  professors.  The  discipline  is 
of  the  simplest,  yet,  I  was  assured,  quite 
efficacious.  If  a  lad,  free  scholar  or  otherwise, 
misbehaves  himself,  he  is  called  before  the 
director  and  warned  that  a  second  reprimand  only 
will  be  given,  the  necessity  of  a  third  entailing 
expulsion.  No  more  rational  treatment  could  be 
'devised. 

Besides  practical  teaching  in  the  fields  and 
gardens,  consisting  as  yet  of  only  twenty-five 
hectares,  or  nearly  sixty  acres,  a  somewhat  bewil- 
dering course  of  study  is  given.  The  list  of 
subjects  begins  well.  First,  a  lad  is  here  taught 
his  duties  as  the  head  of  a  family,  a  citizen,  and 
a  man  of  business.  Then  come  geography, 
history,  arithmetic,  book-keeping,  trigonometry, 
linear  drawing,  mechanics,  chemistry,  physics, 
natural  history,  botany,  geology,  agrologiet  or 
the  study  of  soils,  irrigation,  political  economy. 
Whilst  farming  generally  is  taught,  the  speciality 
of  the  school  is  fruit  and  flower  culture.  A  beau- 


264    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

tiful  avenue  of  palm  and  orange  trees  leads  from 
the  road  to  the  block  of  buildings,  the  director's 
house  standing  just  outside.  I  was  fortunate  in 
finding  this  gentleman  at  home,  and  he  welcomed 
me  with  the  courtesy,  I  may  say  cordiality,  I  have 
ever  received  from  professors  of  agriculture  and 
practical  farmers  in  France. 

We  immediately  set  out  for  our  survey,  my 
companion  informing  me,  to  my  surprise,  that  the 
gardens  I  now  gazed  on  so  admiringly  formed  a 
mere  wilderness  a  few  years  ago,  that  is  to  say, 
until  their  purchase  by  the  State.  The  palm  and 
orange  trees  had  been  brought  hither  and  trans- 
planted, everything  else  had  sprung  up  on  the 
roughly-cleared  ground.  Palm  trees  are  reared 
on  the  school  lands  for  exportation  to  Holland, 
there,  of  course,  to  be  kept  under  glass ;  ere  long 
the  exportation  of  palms  and  orange  trees  will 
doubtless  become  as  considerable  as  that  of 
hothouse  flowers. 

I  was  shown  magnificent  palms  fifteen  years  old, 
and  nurseries  of  tiny  trees,  at  this  stage  of  their 
existence  unlovely  as  birch  brooms.  Hitherto, 
majestic  although  its  appearance,  the  palm  of  the 
Riviera  has  not  produced  dates.  The  director  is 
devoting  much  time  to  this  subject,  and  hopes  ere 
long  to  gather  his  crop. 

As  we  passed  between  the  orange  trees,  here 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      265 


and  there  the  deep  green  glossy  fruit  turning  to 
gold,  I  heard  the  same  report  as  at  Pessicarz.  At 
neither  place  can  the  lads  resist  helping  themselves 
to  the  unripe  oranges.  Sour  apples  and  green 
oranges  seem  quite  irresistible  to  hobbledehoys. 
The  trees  were  laden  with  fruit,  and,  unless  blown 
off  by  a  storm,  the  crop  would  be  heavy.  An 
orange  tree  on  an  average  produces  to  the  value 
of  two  hundred  francs. 

I  was  next  taken  to  the  newly-created  vine- 
yards, some  consisting  of  French  grafts  on 
American  stock,  others  American  plants ;  but  vines 
are  capricious,  and  one  vineyard  looked  sickly 
enough,  although  free  from  parasites.  The  climate 
did  not  suit  it,  that  was  all. 

But  by  far  the  most  important  and  interesting 
crops  here  are  the  hothouse  flowers.  I  fancy  few 
English  folks  think  of  glass-houses  in  connection 
with  the  Riviera.  Yet  the  chief  business  of  horti- 
culturists during  a  large  portion  of  the  year  is  in 
the  conservatory.  Brilliant  as  is  the  winter  sun, 
the  nights  are  cold  and  the  fall  of  temperature 
after  sundown  extremely  rapid.  Only  the  hardier 
flowers,  therefore,  remain  out  of  doors. 

I  was  now  shown  the  glass-houses  being  made 
ready  for  the  winter.  All  the  choice  flowers,  roses, 
carnations  and  others,  sent  to  Paris,  London, 
Berlin,  St.  Petersburg,  are  grown  under  glass. 


266    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

Roses  thus  cultivated  will  bring  four  francs  per 
dozen  to  the  grower;  I  was  even  told  of  choicest 
kinds  sold  from  the  conservatories  at  a  franc  each. 
It  may  easily  be  conceived  how  profitable  is  this 
commerce,  destined  without  doubt  to  become  more 
so  as  the  culture  of  flowers  improves.  New 
varieties  are  ever  in  demand  for  royal  or  million- 
aires' tables,  bridal  bouquets,  funeral  wreaths.  I 
was  told  the  discoverer  or  creator  of  a  blue  carna- 
tion would  make  his  fortune.  I  confess  this  com- 
mercial aspect  of  flowers  takes  something  from 
their  poetry.  Give  me  a  cottager's  plot  of  sweet- 
williams  and  columbine  instead  of  the  floral 
paragon  evolved  for  the  gratification  of  the 
curious !  As  we  strolled  about  we  came  upon 
groups  of  students  at  work.  All  politely  raised 
their  hats  when  we  passed,  and  by  their  look 
and  manner  might  have  been  taken  for  young 
gentlemen. 

A  great  future  doubtless  awaits  this  delightfully 
placed  Horticultural  School.  Whilst  the  object 
primarily  aimed  at  by  the  State  is  the  education 
of  native  gardeners  and  floriculturists,  other  results 
may  be  confidently  expected.  No  rule  keeps  out 
foreigners,  and  just  as  our  Indian  candidates  for 
the  Forestry  service  prepare  themselves  at  Nancy, 
so  intending  fruit-growers  in  Tasmania  will  in 
time  betake  themselves  to  Antibes.  A  colonial, 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY       207 

as  well  as  an  international  element  is  pretty  sure 
to  be  added.     French  subjects  beyond  seas  will 
certainly  avail  themselves  of  privileges  not  to  be 
had  at  home,  carrying  away  with  them  knowledge 
of  the  greatest  service  in  tropical  France.    Horti- 
culture as  a  science  must  gain  greatly  by  such  a 
centre,     new    methods    being    tried,    improved 
systems  put  into  practice.    In  any  case,  the  depart- 
ment may  fairly  be  congratulated  on  its  recent 
acquisition,  one,  alas,  we  have  to  set  against  very 
serious  drawbacks !     In  these  intensely  hot  and 
glaring  days  of  mid-October,  the  only  way  of 
enjoying  life  is  to  betake  oneself  to  a  sailing-boat. 
Few  English  folks  realize  the  torture  of  mosquito- 
invaded  nights  on  the  Riviera.     As  to  mosquito 
curtains,  they  afford  a  remedy  ofttimes  worse  than 
the  disease,  keeping  out  what  little  air  is  to  be  had 
and  admitting,  here  and  there,  one  mosquito  of 
slenderer  bulk  and  more  indomitable  temper  than 
the  rest.    After  two  or  three   utterly   sleepless 
nights  the  most  enthusiastic  traveller  will  sigh  for 
grey    English    skies,    pattering    drops    and    un- 
disturbed sleep.     At  sea,  you  may  escape  both 
blinding  glare  and  mosquito  bites.    A  boat  is  also 
the  only  means  of  realizing  the  beauty  of  the  coast. 
Most  beautiful  is  the  roundabout  sail  from  Cannes 
to    the  lie   St.   Marguerite :    I   say  roundabout, 
because,  if  the  wind  is  adverse,  the  boatmen  have 


268    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

to  make  a  circuit,  going  out  of  their  course  to  the 
length  of  four  or  five  miles.  Every  tourist  knows 
the  story  of  the  Iron  Mask;  few  are  perhaps  aware 
that  in  the  horrible  prison  in  which  Louis  XIV. 
kept  him  for  seventeen  years,  Protestants  were 
also  incarcerated,  their  only  crime  being  that  they 
would  not  perjure  themselves,  in  other  words, 
feign  certain  beliefs  to  please  the  tyrant. 

At  the  present  time  the  cells  adjoining  the 
historic  dungeon  of  the  Masque  de  Per  are  more 
cheerfully  occupied.  Soldiers  are  placed  there  for 
slight  breaches  of  discipline,  their  confinement 
varying  from  twelve  hours  to  a  few  days.  We 
heard  two  or  three  occupants  gaily  whiling  away  the 
time  by  singing  patriotic  songs,  under  the  circum- 
stances the  best  thing  they  could  do.  Lovely 
indeed  was  the  twenty  minutes'  sail  back  to 
Cannes,  the  sea,  deep  indigo,  the  sky,  intensest 
blue,  white  villas  dotting  the  green  hills,  far  away 
the  violet  mountains.  When  we  betake  ourselves 
to  the  railway  or  carriage  road,  we  must  make  one 
comparison  very  unfavourable  to  English  land- 
scape. Here  building  stone,  as  bricks  and  mortar 
with  us,  is  daily  and  hourly  invading  pastoral 
scenes,  but  the  hideous  advertizing  board  is  absent 
in  France.  We  do  not  come  upon  monster 
advertisements  of  antibilious  pills,  hair  dye,  or 
soap  amid  olive  groves  and  vineyards.  Let  us 


THE   SUICIDES'    CEMETERY       269 


hope  that  the  vulgarization  permitted  among  our- 
selves will  not  be  imitated  by  our  neighbours. 

In  1789  Arthur  Young  described  the  stretch  of 
country  between  Frejus  and  Cannes  as  a  desert, 
"  not  one  mile  in  twenty  cultivated."  Will  Europe 
and  America,  with  the  entire  civilized  world, 
furnish  valetudinarians  in  sufficient  numbers  to  fill 
the  hotels,  villas,  and  boarding  houses  now  rising 
at  every  stage  of  the  same  way?  The  matter 
seems  problematic,  yet  last  winter  accommodation 
at  Nice  barely  sufficed  for  the  influx  of  visitors. 

Nice  is  the  most  beautiful  city  in  France,  I  am 
tempted  to  say  the  most  beautiful  city  I  ever 
beheld.  It  is  the  last  in  which  I  should  choose 
to  live  or  even  winter. 

Site,  sumptuosity,  climate,  vegetation  here 
attain  their  acme;  so  far,  indeed,  Nice  may  be 
pronounced  flawless.  During  a  certain  portion 
of  the  year,  existence,  considered  from  the 
physical  and  material  point  of  view,  were  surely 
here  perfect.  When  we  come  to  the  social  and 
moral  aspect  of  the  most  popular  health  resort 
in  Europe,  a  very  different  conclusion  is  forced 
upon  us. 

Blest  in  itself,  Nice  is  cursed  in  its  surround- 
ings. So  near  is  that  plague  spot  of  Europe, 
Monte  Carlo,  that  it  may  almost  be  regarded  as 
a  suburb.  For  a  few  pence,  in  half-an-hour,  you 


270    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 


may  transport  yourself  from  a  veritable  earthly 
Paradise  to  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  gilded 
Inferno.  Unfortunately  evil  is  more  contagious 
than  good.  Certain  medical  authorities  aver  that 
the  atmosphere  of  Mentone  used  to  be  impreg- 
nated with  microbes  of  phthisis ;  the  germs  of  moral 
disease  infecting  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of 
Nice  are  far  more  appalling.  Nor  are  symptoms 
wanting  of  the  spread  of  that  moral  disease.  The 
municipal  council  of  this  beautiful  city,  like  Esau, 
had  just  sold  their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 
They  had  conceded  the  right  of  gambling  to  the 
Casino,  the  proprietors  purchasing  the  right  by 
certain  outlays  in  the  way  of  improvements,  a  new 
public  garden,  and  so  on.  As  yet  roulette  and 
rouge-et-noir  are  not  permitted  at  Nice,  the 
gambling  at  present  carried  on  being  apparently 
harmless.  It  is  in  reality  even  more  insidious, 
being  a  stepping-stone  to  vice,  a  gradual  initiation 
into  desperate  play.  Just  as  addiction  to  absinthe 
is  imbibed  by  potions  quite  innocuous  in  the  begin- 
ning, so  the  new  Casino  at  Nice  schools  the 
gamester  from  the  outset,  slowly  and  by  infini- 
tesimal degrees  preparing  him  for  ruin,  dishonour 
and  suicide. 

The  game  played  is  called  Petits  Chevaux,  and 
somewhat  resembles  our  nursery  game  of  steeple- 
chase. The  stakes  are  only  two  francs,  but  as 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      271 

there  are  eight  to  each  horse,  and  you  may  take 
as  many  as  you  please,  it  is  quite  easy  to  lose 
several  hundred  francs  in  one  evening — or,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  one  afternoon.  Here,  as  at 
Monte  Carlo,  the  gambling  rooms  remain  open 
from  noon  till  midnight.  The  buildings  are  on 
an  imposing  scale :  reading  rooms,  a  winter 
garden,  concerts,  entertainments  of  various  kinds 
blinding  the  uninitiated  to  the  real  attraction  of 
the  place,  namely,  the  miniature  horses  spinning 
around  the  tables.  Already — I  write  of  October 
—eager  crowds  stood  around,  and  we  heard  the 
incessant  chink  of  falling  coin.  This  modified 
form  of  gambling  is  especially  dangerous  to  the 
young.  Parents,  who  on  no  account  would  let 
their  children  toss  a  five-franc  piece  on  to  the 
tables  of  Monte  Carlo,  see  no  harm  in  watching 
them  play  at  petits  chevaux.  They  should,  first 
of  all,  make  a  certain  ghastly  pilgrimage  I  will 
now  relate. 

Monaco  does  not  as  yet,  politically  speaking, 
form  a  part  of  French  territory;  from  a  geo- 
graphical point  of  view  we  are  obliged  so  to 
regard  it.  Thus  French  geographers  and  writers 
of  handbooks  include  the  tiny  principality,  which 
for  the  good  of  humanity,  let  us  hope,  may  ere 
long  be  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake — or 
moralized  !  The  traveller  then  is  advised  to  take 


272    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

train  to  Monaco,  and,  arrived  at  the  little  station, 
whisper  his  errand  in  the  cab-driver's  ear,  "  To  the 
suicides'  cemetery." 

For  the  matter  of  that,  it  is  an  easy  walk  enough 
for  all  who  can  stand  the  burning  sun  and  glare 
of  white  walls  and  buildings.  Very  lovely,  too,  is 
the  scene  as  we  slowly  wind  upwards,  the  road 
bordered  with  aloes  and  cypresses;  above,  hand- 
some villas  standing  amid  orange  groves  and 
flowers ;  below,  the  sparkling  sea. 

A  French  cemetery,  with  its  wreaths  of  bead- 
work  and  artificial  violets,  has  ever  a  most  depress- 
ing appearance.  That  of  Monaco  is  like  any 
other,  we  find  the  usual  magnificence,  and  usual 
tinsel.  Many  beautiful  trees,  shrubs,  and  flowers, 
however,  relieve  the  gloom,  and  every  inch  is 
exquisitely  kept. 

Quite  apart  from  this  vast  burial-ground,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  main  entrance,  is  a  small 
enclosure,  walled  in  and  having  a  gate  of  open 
ironwork  always  locked.  Here,  in  close  proximity 
to  heaps  of  garden  rubbish,  broken  bottles  and 
other  refuse,  rest  the  suicides  of  Monte  Carlo, 
buried  by  the  parish  gravedigger,  without  funeral 
and  without  any  kind  of  religious  ceremony. 
Each  grave  is  marked  by  an  upright  bit  of  wood, 
somewhat  larger  than  that  by  which  gardeners 
mark  their  seeds,  and  on  which  is  painted  a 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY       273 

number,  nothing  more.  Apart  from  these,  are 
stakes  driven  into  the  ground  which  mark  as  yet 
unappropriated  spots.  The  indescribable  dreari- 
ness of  the  scene  is  heightened  by  two  monumental 
stones  garlanded  with  wreaths  and  surrounded  by 
flowers-  The  first  records  the  memory  of  a  young 
artisan,  and  was  raised  by  his  fellow-workmen; 
the  second  commemorates  brotherly  and  sisterly 
affection.  Both  suicides  were  driven  to  self- 
murder  by  play.  The  remainder  are  mere 
numbers.  There  are  poor  gamesters  as  well  as 
rich,  and  it  is  only  or  chiefly  these  who  are  put 
into  the  ground  here.  The  bodies  of  rich  folks' 
relatives,  if  identified,  are  immediately  removed, 
and,  by  means  of  family  influence,  interred  with 
religious  rites.  Many  suicides  are  buried  at  Nice 
and  Mentone,  but  the  larger  proportion,  farther 
off  still.  Not  to  descant  further  on  this  grim 
topic,  let  me  now  say  something  about  Monte 
Carlo  itself. 

Never  anywhere  was  snare  more  plainly  set  in 
the  sight  of  any  bird.  There  is  little  in  the  way 
of  amusement  that  you  do  not  get  for  nothing 
here,  a  beautiful  pleasure-ground,  reading-rooms 
as  luxurious  and  well-supplied  as  those  of  a  West 
End  club,  one  of  the  best  orchestras  in  Europe, 
and  all  without  cost  of  a  farthing. 

The  very  lavishness  arouses  suspicion  in  the 


274    IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

minds  of  the  wary.  Why  should  we  be  supplied, 
not  only  with  every  English  newspaper  we  ever 
heard  of,  but  with  Punch,  Truth,  and  similar 
publications  to  boot?  Why  should  Germans, 
Russians,  Dutch,  every  other  European  nation, 
receive  treatment  equally  generous  ?  Again,  to  be 
able  to  sit  down  at  elegant  writing-tables  and  use 
up  a  quire  of  fine  notepaper  and  a  packet  of 
envelopes  to  match,  if  we  chose,  how  is  all  this 
managed  ?  The  concerts  awaken  a  feeling  of  even 
intenser  bewilderment.  Not  so  much  as  a  penny- 
are  we  allowed  to  pay  for  a  programme,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  trained  musicians.  Where  is  the 
compensation  of  such  liberality? 

The  gambling  tables,  crowded  even  at  three 
o'clock  on  an  October  afternoon,  answer  our 
question.  The  season  begins  later,  but  gamblers 
cannot  wait.  "  Faites  le  jeu,  messieurs;  messieurs, 
faites  le  jeu,"  is  already  heard  from  noon  to 
midnight,  and  the  faster  people  ruin  themselves 
and  send  a  pistol  shot  through  their  heads,  the 
faster  others  take  their  place.  It  is  indeed  melan- 
choly to  reflect  how  many  once  respectable  lives, 
heads  of  families,  even  wives  and  mothers,  are 
being  gradually  lured  on  to  bankruptcy  and 
suicide. 

In  cruellest  contrast  to  the  moral  degradation 
fostered  below,  is  the  enormous  cathedral,  at  the 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      275 

time  of  my  visit  in  course  of  erection  directly 
above  the  gambling  rooms.  The  millions  of 
francs  expended  on  this  sumptuous  basilica  were 
supplied  by  the  proprietors  of  the  Casino  and  the 
Prince  of  Monaco.  Nothing  can  strike  the 
stranger  with  a  stronger  sense  of  incongruity — a 
church  rising  from  the  very  heart  of  a  Pande- 
monium ! 

Monaco  is  a  pretty,  toy-like,  Lilliputian  kingdom 
compared  with  which  the  smallest  German  princi- 
pality of  former  days  was  enormous.  Curiously 
enough,  whilst  Monte  Carlo  is  peopled  with 
gamesters,  the  only  tenants  of  Monaco  seem  to  be 
priests,  nuns  and  their  pupils.  The  miniature 
capital,  state  and  kingdom  in  one,  consists  chiefly 
of  convents  and  seminaries,  and  wherever  you  go 
you  come  upon  these  Jesuit  fathers  with  their 
carefully-guarded  troops  of  lads  in  uniform.  A 
survey  of  the  entire  principality  of  Monaco,  Monte 
Carlo  included,  requires  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Nowhere,  surely,  on  the  face  of  the  civil- 
ized globe  is  so  much  mischief  contained  in  so 
small  a  space.  Fortunately,  the  poisonous  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Casino  does  not  seem  to  affect  the 
native  poor.  Everywhere  we  are  struck  by  the 
thrifty,  sober,  hard-working  population ;  beggars  or 
ragged,  wretched-looking  creatures  are  very  rare. 
If  the  authorities  of  the  Alpes  Maritimes  have  set 

T  2 


276    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

themselves    to    put    down   vagrancy,    they    have 
certainly  succeeded. 

Nice  is  a  home  for  the  millionaire  and  the  work- 
ing man.  The  intermediate  class  is  not  wanted. 
Visitors  are  expected  to  have  money,  are  welcomed 
on  that  account,  and  if  they  have  to  look  to 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  had  much  better 
remain  at  home. 

Woe  betide  the  needy  invalid  sent  thither  in 
search  of  sunshine  !  Sunshine  is  indeed  a  far 
more  expensive  luxury  on  the  Riviera  than  we 
imagine,  seeing  that  only  rooms  with  a  north 
aspect  are  cheap,  and  a  sunless  room  is  much  more 
comfortless  and  unwholesome  than  a  well-warmed 
one,  no  matter  its  aspect,  in  England.  The  only 
cheap  commodity,  one  unfortunately  we  cannot 
live  upon,  is  the  bouquet.  In  October,  that  is  to 
say,  before  the  arrival  of  winter  visitors,  flowers 
are  to  be  had  for  the  asking ;  on  the  market-place 
an  enormous  bouquet  of  tuberoses,  violets,  carna- 
tions, myrtle,  priced  at  two  or  three  francs,  the 
price  in  Paris  being  twenty.  Fruit  also  I  found 
cheap,  figs  fourpence  a  dozen,  and  other  kinds  in 
proportion.  This  market  is  the  great  sight  of 
Nice,  and  seen  on  a  cloudless  day — indeed  it 
would  be  difficult  to  see  it  on  any  other — is  a  glory 
of  colour  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  give  the 
remotest  notion.  I  was  somewhat  taken  aback  to 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY       277 

find  Sunday  less  observed  here  as  a  day  of  rest 
than  in  any  other  French  town  I  know,  and  not 
many  French  towns  are  unknown  to  me.  The 
flower  and  fruit  markets  were  crowded,  drapers', 
grocers',  booksellers'  shops  open  all  day  long, 
traffic  unbroken  as  usual..  I  should  have  imagined 
that  a  city,  for  generations  taken  possession  of  by 
English  visitors,  would  by  this  time  have  fallen 
into  our  habit  of  respecting  Sunday  alike  in  the 
interests  of  man  and  beast.  Of  churches,  both 
English  and  American,  there  is  no  lack.  Let  us 
hope  that  the  Protestant  clergy  will  turn  their 
attention  to  this  subject.  Let  us  hope  also  that 
the  entire  English-speaking  community  will 
second  their  efforts  in  this  direction.  Further,  I 
will  put  in  a  good  word  for  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  founded  at  Nice 
some  years  since,  and  sadly  in  need  of  funds. 
The  Society  is  backed  up  by  the  Government  in 
accordance  with  the  admirable  Loi  Grammont, 
but,  as  is  the  case  with  local  societies  in  England, 
requires  extraneous  help.  Surely  rich  English 
valetudinarians  will  not  let  this  humane  work 
stand  still,  seeing,  as  they  must  do  daily,  the 
urgent  necessity  of  such  interference  !  From  the 
windows  of  a  beautiful  villa  on  the  road  to  Ville- 
franche,  I  saw  baskets  of  chickens  brought  in 
from  Italy,  the  half  of  which  were  dead  or  dying 


278    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

from  suffocation.  As  the  owner  of  the  villa  said, 
"Not  even  self-interest  teaches  this  Italian 
humanity."  By  packing  his  fowls  so  as  to  afford 
them  breathing  space,  he  would  double  his  gains. 
The  habit  of  cruelty  is  too  inveterate.  My  host 
assured  me  that  large  numbers  of  poultry  sent 
across  the  frontier  are  suffocated  on  the  way. 

Horrible  also  is  the  pigeon-shooting  at  Monte 
Carlo.  Hundreds  of  these  wretched  birds  are 
killed  for  sport  every  day  during  the  winter.  The 
wounded  or  escaped  fly  back  after  a  while  to  be 
shot  at  next  day. 

The  word  "villa"  calls  for  comment.  Such  a 
'designation  is  appropriate  here.  The  palatial 
villas  of  Nice,  standing  amid  orangeries  and  palm 
groves,  are  worthy  of  their  Roman  forerunners. 
For  the  future  I  shall  resent  the  term  as  applied 
in  England  to  eight-roomed,  semi-detached  con- 
structions, poorly  built,  and  with  a  square  yard  of 
flower-bed  in  front.  Many  of  the  Nigois  villas 
are  veritable  palaces,  and  what  adds  to  their 
sumptuousness  is  the  indoor  greenery,  dwarf 
palms,  india-rubber  trees,  and  other  handsome 
evergreens  decorating  corridor  and  landing- 
places.  The  English  misnomer  has,  nevertheless, 
compensations  in  snug  little  kitchen  and  decent 
servant's  bedroom.  I  looked  over  a  handsome 
villa  here,  type,  I  imagine,  of  the  rest.  The 


THE   SUICIDES'   CEMETERY      279 

servants'  bedrooms  were  mere  closets  with  open- 
ings on  to  a  dark  corridor,  no  windows,  fireplace, 
cupboard,  or  any  convenience.  The  kitchen  was 
a  long,  narrow  room,  after  the  manner  of  French 
kitchens,  with  space  by  the  window  for  two  or 
three  chairs.  I  ventured  to  ask  the  mistress  of 
the  house  where  the  servants  sat  when  work  was 
done.  Her  answer  was  suggestive — 
"  They  have  no  time  to  sit  anywhere." 
It  will  be  seen  that  our  grey  skies  and  mean- 
looking  dwellings  have  compensations. 


XIII 
GUEST   OF   FARMER   AND    MILLER 


GUEST   OF    FARMER   AND   MILLER 

"  NINE  hours'  rolling  at  anchor "  was  Arthur 
Young's  experience  of  a  Channel  passage  in  1787, 
and  on  the  return  journey  he  was  compelled  to 
wait  three  days  for  a  wind.  Two  years  later, 
what  is  in  our  own  time  a  delightful  little  plea- 
sure cruise  of  one  hour  and  a  quarter,  the  journey 
from  Dover  to  Calais  occupied  fourteen  hours. 

We  might  suppose  from  the  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  English  travellers  who  yearly  cross 
the  Manche,  that  Picardy,  Artois,  and  French 
Flanders  would  overflow  with  them,  that  we 
should  hear  English  speech  wherever  we  go,  and 
find  ourselves  amid  more  distinctly  English  sur- 
roundings than  even  in  Switzerland  or  Norway; 
but  no  such  thing.  From  the  moment  I  quitted 
Boulogne  to  that  of  my  departure  from  Calais, 
having  made  the  round  by  way  of  Hesdin,  Arras, 
Vitry-en-Artois,  Douai,  Lille,  St.  Omer,  I  no  more 
encountered  an  English  tourist  than  on  the 
Gausses  of  the  Lozere  a  few  years  before.  Many 
years  later,  on  going  over  much  of  the  same 
ground,  with  a  halt  at  fitaples  and  Le  Touquet, 

it  was  much  the  same.     Yet  such  a  tour,  costing 

383 


284    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

so  little  as  regards  money,  time  and  fatigue,  teems 
with  interest  of  very  varied  and  unlooked-for 
kind. 

Every  inch  of  ground  is  historic  to  begin  with, 
and  has  contributed  its  page  to  Anglo-French 
annals  or  English  romance.  We  may  take  the 
little  railway  from  Hesdin  to  Abbeville,  traversing 
the  forest  of  Crecy,  and  drive  across  the  corn- 
fields to  Agincourt.  We  may  stop  at  Montreuil, 
which  now  looks  well,  not  only  "on  the  map," 
but  from  the  railway  carriage,  reviving  our  recol- 
lections of  Tristram  Shandy.  At  Douai  we  find 
eighty  English  boys  playing  cricket  and  football 
under  the  eye  of  English  Benedictine  monks— 
their  college  being  a  survival  of  the  persecutions 
of  Good  Queen  Bess. 

And  to  come  down  from  history  and  romance 
to  astounding  prose,  we  find,  a  few  years  ago, 
Roubaix,  a  town  of  114,00x3  souls,  that  is  to  say, 
a  fourth  of  the  population  of  Lyons — a  town 
whose  financial  transactions  with  the  Bank  of 
France  exceed  those  of  Rheims,  Nimes,  Tou- 
louse, or  Montpellier,  represented  by  a  man  of 
the  people,  the  important  functions  of  mayor 
being  filled  by  the  proprietor  of  a  humble  esta- 
minet  and  vendor  of  newspapers,  character  and 
convictions  only  having  raised  the  Socialist  leader 
to  such  a  post ! 


GUEST   OF   FARMER   AND   MILLER  285 

In  rural  districts  there  is  also  much  to  learn. 
Peasant  property  exists  more  or  less  in  every  part 
of  France,  but  we  are  here  more  especially  in 
presence  of  agriculture  on  a  large  scale.  In  the 
Pas-de-Calais  and  the  Nord  we  find  high  farming 
in  right  good  earnest,  holdings  of  from  ten  to 
fifteen  hundred  acres  conducted  on  the  footing 
of  large  industrial  concerns,  capital,  science  and 
enterprise  being  alike  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
cultivation  of  the  soil  and  by  private  individuals. 

I  travelled  from  Boulogne  to  Hesdin,  in  time 
for  the  first  beautiful  effect  of  spring-tide  flower 
and  foliage.  The  blackthorn  and  pear  trees 
were  already  in  full  blossom,  and  the  elm,  poplar 
and  chestnut  just  bursting  into  leaf.  Everything 
was  very  advanced,  and  around  the  one-storeyed, 
white-washed  cottages  the  lilacs  showed  masses 
of  bloom,  field  and  garden  being  a  month  ahead 
of  less  favoured  years. 

Near  fitaples  the  wide  estuary  of  the  Canche 
showed  clear,  lake-like  sheets  of  water  amid  the 
brilliant  greenery;  later  are  passed  sandy  downs 
with  few  trees  or  breaks  in  the  landscape.  This 
part  of  France  should  be  seen  during  the  budding 
season ;  of  itself  unpicturesque,  it  is  yet  beautified 
by  the  early  foliage.  Hesdin  is  an  ancient,  quiet 
little  town  on  the  Canche,  with  tanneries  making 


286    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

pictures — and  smells — by  the  river,  unpaved 
streets,  and  a  very  curious  bit  of  civic  architec- 
ture, the  triple-storeyed  portico  of  the  Hotel  de 
Ville.  Its  7000  and  odd  souls  were  soon  to  have 
their  museum,  the  nucleus  being  a  splendid  set 
of  tapestries  representing  the  battle  of  Agincourt, 
in  loveliest  shades  of  subdued  blue  and  grey. 
The  little  inn  is  very  clean  and  comfortable ;  for 
five  francs  a  day  you  obtain  the  services  of  the 
master,  who  is  cook ;  the  mistress,  who  is  chamber- 
maid; and  the  daughters  of  the  house,  who  wait 
at  table.  Such,  at  least,  was  my  experience. 

My  errand  was  to  the  neighbouring  village  of 
Hauteville-Caumont,  whither  I  drove  one  after- 
noon. Quitting  the  town  in  a  north-easterly 
direction,  we  enter  one  of  those  long,  straight 
French  roads  that  really  seem  as  if  they  would 
never  come  to  an  end.  The  solitude  of  the  scene 
around  is  astonishing  to  English  eyes.  For 
miles  we  only  meet  two  road-menders  and  an 
itinerant  glazier.  On  either  side,  far  as  the 
glance  could  reach,  stretches  the  chessboard  land- 
scape— an  expanse  oceanic  in  its  vastness  of  green 
and  brown,  fields  of  corn  and  clover  alternating 
with  land  prepared  for  beetroot  and  potatoes. 
The  extent  and  elevation  of  this  plateau,  formerly 
covered  with  forests,  explain  the  excessive  dry- 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    287 

ness  of  the  climate.  Bitter  indeed  must  be  the 
wintry  blast,  torrid  the  rays  of  summer  here.  As 
we  proceed  we  see  little  breaks  in  the  level  uni- 
formity, plains  of  apple-green  and  chocolate- 
brown  ;  the  land  dips  here  and  there,  showing  tiny 
combes  and  bits  of  refreshing  wood.  The 
houses,  whether  of  large  landowner,  functionary 
or  peasant,  are  invariably  one-storeyed,  the  white 
walls,  brown  tiles,  or  thatched  roof  having  an  old- 
fashioned,  rustic  effect.  One  might  suppose 
earthquakes  were  common  from  this  habit  of 
living  on  the  ground  floor.  The  dryness  of  the 
climate  doubtless  obviates  risk  of  damp.  Much 
more  graceful  are  the  little  orchards  of  these 
homesteads  than  the  mathematically  planted  cider 
apples  seen  here  in  all  stages  of  growth.  Even 
the  blossoms  of  such  trees  later  on  cannot  com- 
pare with  the  glory  of  an  orchard,  in  the  old 
acceptance  of  the  word,  having  reached  maturity 
in  the  natural  way.  Certain  portions  of  rural 
France  are  too  geometrical.  That  I  must  admit. 
Exquisitely  clean,  to  use  a  farmer's  expression, 
are  these  sweeps  of  corn  and  ploughed  land,  be- 
longing to  different  owners,  yet  apparently  with- 
out division.  Only  boundary  stones  at  intervals 
mark  the  limits.  Here  we  find  no  infinitesimal 
subdivision  and  no  multiplicity  of  crops.  Wheat, 
clover,  oats  form  the  triennial  course,  other  crops 


288    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

being  rye,  potatoes,  Swede  turnips,  sainfoin  and 
the  ceillette  or  oil  poppy.  The  cider  apple  is 
also  an  important  product. 

I  found  my  friend's  friend  at  home,  and  after 
a  chat  with  madame  and  her  daughter,  we  set  out 
for  our  round  of  inspection.  This  gentleman 
farmed  his  own  land,  a  beautifully  cultivated 
estate  of  several  hundred  acres;  here  and  there  a 
neighbour's  field  dovetailed  into  his  own,  but 
for  the  greater  part  lying  compactly  together. 
The  first  object  that  attracted  my  notice  was  a 
weather-beaten  old  windmill — sole  survivor  of 
myriads  formerly  studding  the  country.  This 
antiquated  structure  might  have  been  the  identical 
one  slashed  at  by  Don  Quixote.  Iron  grey,  di- 
lapidated, solitary,  it  rose  between  green  fields 
and  blue  sky,  like  a  lighthouse  in  mid-ocean. 
These  mills  are  still  used  for  crushing  rye,  the 
mash  being  mixed  with  roots  for  cattle,  and  the 
straw  used  here,  as  elsewhere,  for  liage  or  tying 
up  wheatsheaves.  The  tenacity  of  this  straw 
makes  it  very  valuable  for  such  purposes. 

Corn,  rye  and  sainfoin  were  already  very 
advanced,  all  here  testifying  to  highly  scientific 
farming;  and  elsewhere  roots  were  being  sown. 
The  soil  is  prepared  by  a  process  called  marnage, 
i.e.  dug  up  to  the  extent  of  three  feet,  the 
marne  or  clayey  soil  being  brought  to  the  sur- 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    289 

face.  A  very  valuable  manure  is  that  of  the 
scoria  or  residue  of  dephosphated  steel,  formerly 
thrown  away  as  worthless,  but  now  largely  im- 
ported from  Hungary  for  agricultural  purposes. 
Nitrate  is  also  largely  used  to  enrich  the  soil. 
Sixty  years  ago  the  Pas-de-Calais  possessed  large 
forests.  Here  at  Caumont  vast  tracts  have  been 
cleared  and  brought  under  culture  since  that  time. 
These  denuded  plateaux,  at  a  considerable  eleva- 
tion above  the  sea-level,  are  naturally  very  dry  and 
very  cold  in  winter,  the  climate  being  gradually 
modified  by  the  almost  total  absence  of  trees. 
Wisely  has  the  present  Government  interdicted 
further  destruction;  forests  are  now  created  in- 
stead, and  we  find  private  individuals  planting 
instead  of  hacking  down.  Lucerne  is  not  much 
cultivated,  and  my  host  told  me  an  interesting 
fact  concerning  it;  in  order  to  grow  lucerne, 
farmers  must  procure  seeds  of  local  growers. 
Seeds  from  the  south  of  France  do  not  produce 
robust  plants. 

The  purple-flowered  poppy,  cultivated  for  the 
production  of  oil,  must  form  a  charming  crop  in 
summer,  and  is  a  most  important  product.  I 
was  assured  that  oil  procured  from  crushed  seeds 
is  the  only  kind  absolutely  free  from  flavour,  and 
as  such  superior  even  to  that  of  olives.  Of  equal 
importance  is  the  cider  apple. 


290    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

The  economic  results  of  war  are  curiously 
exemplified  here.  During  the  war  of  1871 
German  troops  were  stationed  in  the  neighbour- 
ing department  of  the  Somme,  and  there  acquired 
the  habit  of  drinking  cider.  So  agreeable  was 
found  this  drink  that  cider  apples  are  now  largely 
exported  to  Germany,  and  just  as  a  Frenchman 
now  demands  his  Bock  at  a  cafe,  so  in  his  Bier- 
garten  the  German  calls  for  cider. 

My  host  informed  me  that  all  his  own  apples, 
grown  for  commerce,  went  over  the  northern 
frontier.  Cider  is  said  to  render  the  imbiber 
gout-proof  and  rheumatism-proof,  but  requires  a 
long  apprenticeship  to  render  it  palatable.  The 
profits  of  an  apple  orchard  are  threefold.  There 
is  the  crop  gathered  in  October,  which  will  pro- 
duce in  fair  seasons  150  francs  per  hectare,  and 
the  two  grass  crops,  apple  trees  not  hurting  the 
pasture. 

The  labourer's  harvest  here  are  his  potato-fed 
pigs.  In  our  walks  we  came  upon  men  and 
women  sowing  potatoes  on  their  bit  of  hired  land ; 
for  the  most  part  their  bit  of  land  is  tilled  on 
Sundays,  a  neighbour's  horse  being  hired  or  bor- 
rowed for  the  purpose.  Thus  neither  man  nor 
beast  rest  on  the  seventh  day,  and  as  a  natural 
consequence  church-going  gradually  falls  into 
abeyance.  My  host  deplored  this  habit  of  turn- 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    291 

ing  Sunday  into  a  veritable  corvee  for  both  human 
beings  and  cattle,  but  said  that  change  of  system 
must  be  very  slow. 

On  the  whole,  the  condition  of  the  agricul- 
tural labourer  here  contrasts  very  unfavourably 
with  that  of  the  peasant  owner  described  else- 
where. 

The  same  drawbacks  exist  as  in  England. 
Land  for  the  most  part  being  held  by  large 
owners,  accommodation  for  poorer  neighbours  is 
insufficient.  Many  able-bodied  workmen  migrate 
to  the  towns,  simply  because  they  cannot  get 
houses  to  live  in;  such  one-storeyed  dwellings  as 
exist  have  an  uncared-for  look,  neither  are  the 
village  folks  so  well  dressed  as  in  regions  of 
peasant  property.  In  fact,  I  should  say,  after  a 
very  wide  experience,  that  peasant  property  in- 
variably uplifts  and  non-propertied  labour  drags 
down.  This  seems  to  me  a  conclusion  mathe- 
matically demonstrable. 

Mayor  of  his  commune,  my  host  was  a  man  of 
progress  and  philanthropy  in  the  widest  sense  of 
the  word.  He  had  lately  brought  about  the  open- 
ing of  an  infant  school  here,  and  dwelt  on  the 
beneficial  results;  children  not  being  admitted  to 
the  communal  schools  under  the  age  of  seven,  were 
otherwise  thrown  on  the  streets  all  day.  Infant 
schools  are  generally  found  in  the  larger  com- 

U  2 


292    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

munes.  Intersecting  my  host's  vast  stretches  of 
field  and  ploughed  land  lay  the  old  strategic 
road  from  Rouen  to  St.  Omer,  a  broad  band  of 
dazzling  white  thrown  across  the  tremendous 
panorama.  An  immense  plain  is  spread  before 
us  as  a  map,  now  crudely  brilliant  in  hue,  two 
months  later  to  show  blending  gold  and  purple. 
Vast,  too,  the  views  obtained  on  the  homeward 
drive.  Over  against  Hesdin  rises  its  forest- 
holiday  ground  of  rich  and  poor,  as  yet  undis- 
covered by  the  tourist.  From  this  friendly  little 
town  a  charming  woodland  journey  may  be  made 
by  the  railway  now  leading  through  the  forest  of 
Crecy  to  Abbeville. 

Between  Hesdin  and  Arras  the  geometrically 
planted  cider  apple  trees  and  poplars  growing  in 
parallel  lines  are  without  beauty,  but  by  the  rail- 
way are  bits  of  waste  ground  covered  with  cowslip, 
wind  flowers,  cuckoo-pint,  and  dandelion.  On 
the  top  of  lofty  elms  here  and  there  are  dark 
masses;  these  are  the  nests  of  the  magpie,  and 
apparently  quite  safe  from  molestation. 

By  the  wayside  we  see  evidences  of  peasant 
ownership  on  the  most  modest  scale,  women  cut- 
ting their  tiny  patch  of  rye,  as  green  food  for 
cattle,  sowing  their  potato  field,  or  keeping  a  few 
sheep.  Everywhere  lilacs  are  in  full  bloom,  and 
the  pear  and  cherry  trees  burdened  with  blossom 


GUEST   OF   FARMER   AND   MILLER  298 

as    snow.       Everything    is    a    month    ahead    of 
ordinary  years.     I  write  of  April  1893. 

The  Hotel  St.  Pol  at  Arras  looks,  I  should  say, 
precisely  as  it  did  in  Robespierre's  time.  The 
furniture  certainly  belongs  to  that  epoch,  sanitary 
arrangements  have  made  little  advance,  and  the 
bare  staircases  and  floors  do  not  appear  as  if  they 
had  been  well  swept,  much  less  scoured,  since  the 
fall  of  the  Bastille.  It  is  a  rambling,  I  should 
say  rat-haunted,  old  place,  but  fairly  quiet  and 
comfortable,  with  civil  men-servants  and  no  kind 
of  pretence. 

Arras  itself,  that  is  to  say  its  Petite  Place,  is  a 
specimen  of  Renaissance  architecture  hardly  to 
be  matched  even  in  France.  The  Flemish  gables 
and  Spanish  arcades,  not  a  vestige  of  moderniza- 
tion marring  the  effect,  make  a  unique  picture. 
Above  all  rises  the  first  of  those  noble  belfry 
towers  met  by  the  traveller  on  this  round,  souve- 
nirs of  civic  rights  hardly  won  and  stoutly  main- 
tained. The  first  object  looked  for  will  be 
Robespierre's  birthplace,  an  eminently  respectable 
middle-class  abode,  now  occupied  by  a  personage 
almost  as  generally  distasteful  as  that  of  the  Con- 
ventionnel  himself,  namely,  a  process-server  or 
bailiff.  A  bright  little  lad  whom  I  interrogated 
on  the  way  testified  the  liveliest  interest  in  my 
quest,  and  would  not  lose  sight  of  me  till  I  had 


294    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

discovered  the  right  house.  It  is  a  yellow-walled, 
yellow-shuttered,  symbolically  atrabilious-looking 
place,  with  twenty-three  front  windows.  Robes- 
pierre's parents  must  have  been  in  decent  circum- 
stances when  their  son  Maximilian  was  born,  and 
perhaps  the  reverses  of  early  life  had  no  small 
share  in  determining  his  after  career.  Left  an 
orphan  in  early  life,  he  owed  his  education  and 
start  in  life  to  charity.  The  fastidious,  poetic, 
austere  country  lawyer,  unlike  his  fellow-conven- 
tionnels,  was  no  born  orator.  Thoughts  that 
breathe  and  words  that  burn  did  not  drop  from 
his  lips  as  from  Danton's.  His  carefully  prepared 
speeches,  even  in  the  apogee  of  his  popularity, 
were  often  interrupted  by  the  cry  "Cut  it  short" 
or  "Keep  to  the  point."  The  exponent  of 
Rousseau  was  ofttimes  "long  preaching,"  like 
St.  Paul. 

But  there  are  early  utterances  of  Robespierre's 
that  constitute  in  themselves  a  revolution,  when, 
for  instance,  in  1789  he  pleaded  for  the  admission 
of  Jews,  non-Catholics,  and  actors  to  political 
rights.  "The  Jews,"  he  protested,  "have  been 
maligned  in  history.  Their  reputed  vices  arise 
from  the  ignominy  into  which  they  have  been 
plunged."  And  although  his  later  discourses 
breathe  a  spirit  of  frenzied  vindictiveness,  certain 
passages  recall  that  "humane  and  spiritual 


•     •  ••  * 

:  ::\: 


•••• 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    295 

element"  commented  upon  by  Charles  Nodier. 
This  is  especially  noticeable  in  what  is  called  his 
discours-testament,  the  speech  delivered  on  the 
eve  of  Thermidor.  At  one  moment,  with  positive 
ferocity,  he  lashes  the  memory  of  former  friends 
and  colleagues  sent  by  himself  to  the  guillotine; 
at  another  he  dilates  upon  the  virtue  of  mag- 
nanimity in  lofty,  Platonic  strains. 

With  Danton's  implacable  foe  it  was  indeed  a 
case  of  "  Roses,  roses,  all  the  way.  Thus  I  enter, 
and  thus  I  go."  Twenty-four  hours  after  that 
peroration  he  awaited  his  doom,  an  object  of  ruth- 
less execration.  And  visitors  are  still  occasionally 
shown  in  the  Hotel  des  Archives  the  table  on 
which  was  endured  his  short  but  terrible  retribu- 
tion. 

A  public  day  school  for  girls  exists  at  Arras,  but 
the  higher  education  of  women — we  must  never 
lose  sight  of  the  fact — is  sternly  denounced  by 
Catholic  authorities.  Lay  schools  and  lay 
teachers  for  girls  are  not  only  unfashionable,  they 
are  immoral  in  the  eyes  of  the  orthodox. 

The  museum  and  public  library,  40,000  and  odd 
volumes,  of  this  town  of  26,000  souls  are  both 
magnificent  and  magnificently  housed  in  the 
ancient  Abbaye  de  St.  Vaast,  adjoining  cathedral, 
bishopric  and  public  garden. 

Besides  pictures,  statuary,  natural  history  and 


296    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

archaeological  collections,  occupying  three  storeys, 
is  a  room  devoted  exclusively  to  local  talent  and 
souvenirs.  Among  the  numerous  bequests  of 
generous  citizens  is  a  collection  of  faience  lately 
left  by  a  tradeswoman,  whose  portrait  commemo- 
rates the  deed.  Some  fine  specimens  of  ancient 
tapestry  of  Arras,  hence  the  name  arras,  chiefly  in 
shades  of  grey  and  blue,  and  also  specimens  of 
the  delicate  hand-made  Arras  lace,  are  here. 
There  is  also  a  room  of  technical  exhibits, 
chemicals  and  minerals  used  in  the  industrial  arts, 
dyes,  textiles. 

Quite  a  third  of  the  visitors  thronging  these 
sumptuous  rooms  were  young  recruits.  A  modern 
picture  of  Eustache  St.  Pierre  and  his  companions, 
at  the  feet  of  Edward  III  and  his  kneeling  Queen, 
evoked  much  admiration.  ,  I  heard  one  young 
soldier  explaining  the  subject  to  a  little  group. 
There  were  also  many  family  parties,  and  some 
blue  blouses.  How  delightful  such  a  place  of 
resort — not  so  much  in  July  weather,  on  this  Qth 
of  April  one  might  fancy  it  harvest  time ! — but 
on  bleak,  rainy,  uninviting  days  !  One  of  the 
officials  advised  me  to  visit  the  recently  erected 
Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town,  which  I  did.  I  would  here  note  the  pride 
taken  in  their  public  collections  by  all  concerned. 
This  elderly  man,  most  likely  an  old  soldier, 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    297 

seemed  as  proud  of  the  museum  as  if  it  were  his 
own  especial  property. 

I  was  at  once  shown  over  the  spacious,  airy, 
well-kept  building — school  of  art  and  conserva- 
torium  of  music  in  one,  both  built,  set  on  foot,  and 
maintained  by  the  municipality.  Here  youths 
and  girls  of  all  ranks  can  obtain  a  thorough  artistic 
and  musical  training  without  a  fraction  of  cost. 
The  classes  are  held  in  separate  rooms,  and  boys 
in  addition  learn  modelling  and  mechanical 
drawing. 

The  school  was  opened  four  years  ago,  and 
already  numbers  eighty  students  of  both  sexes, 
girls  meeting  two  afternoons  a  week,  boys  every 
evening.  Arras  also  possesses  an  ficole  Normale 
or  large  training  school  for  female  teachers. 

On  this  brilliant  Sunday  afternoon,  although 
many  small  shops  were  open,  I  noted  the  cessation 
of  street  traffic.  Every  one  seemed  abroad,  and 
business  at  a  standstill.  All  the  newspaper  kiosks 
were  closed. 

Next  morning  soon  after  eight  o'clock  I  was  off 
to  Vitry-en-Artois  for  a  day's  farming.  At  the 
little  station  I  was  met  by  a  friend's  friend — a 
typical  young  Frenchman,  gaiety  itself,  amiable, 
easy,  all  his  faculties  alert — and  driven  by  him 
in  a  little  English  dogcart  to  the  neighbouring 
village.  Twenty-five  minutes  brought  us  to  our 


298    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

destination — house  and  model  farm  of  a  neigh- 
bour, upwards  of  twelve  hundred  acres,  all  culti- 
vated on  the  most  approved  methods.  Our  host 
now  took  my  young  friend's  reins,  he  seating  him- 
self behind,  and  we  drove  slowly  over  a  large 
portion  of  the  estate,  taking  a  zigzag  course  across 
the  fields.  There  are  here  three  kinds  of  soil- 
dry,  chalky  and  unproductive,  rich  loam,  and  light 
intermediate.  In  spite  of  the  drought  of  the  last 
few  weeks,  the  crops  are  very  luxuriant,  and  quite 
a  month  ahead  of  former  seasons. 

This  estate  of  six  hundred  and  odd  hectares  is 
a  specimen  of  high  farming  on  a  large  scale,  such 
as  I  had  never  before  witnessed  in  France.  I  do 
not  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  from  end  to  end 
could  not  be  discerned  a  single  weed.  Of  course, 
the  expense  of  cultivation  on  such  a  scale  is  very 
great,  and  'hardly  remunerative  at  the  present 
price  of  wheat. 

Sixty  hectares,  i.  e.  nearly  150  acres,  are  planted 
with  wheat,  and  two-thirds  of  that  superficies  with 
beetroot.  The  young  corn  was  as  advanced  as  in 
June  with  us,  some  kinds  of  richer  growth  than 
others,  and  showing  different  shades  of  green, 
each  tract  absolutely  weedless,  and  giving  evi- 
dence of  highest  cultivation.  Fourteen  hecto- 
litres l  per  hectare  of  corn  is  the  average,  forty  the 

1  Hectolitre  =  2  bushels  3  pecks. 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    299 

maximum.  Besides  beetroot  for  sugar,  clover 
and  sainfoin  are  grown,  little  or  no  barley,  and 
neither  turnips  nor  mangel-wurzel. 

The  land  is  just  now  prepared  for  planting  beet- 
root, by  far  the  most  important  crop  here,  and  on 
which  I  shall  have  much  to  say.  Henceforth, 
indeed,  the  farming  I  describe  may  be  called 
industrial,  purely  agricultural  products  being 
secondary. 

On  the  importance  of  beetroot  sugar  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  dwell  at  length.  A  few  preliminary 
facts,  however,  may  be  acceptable.  Up  till  the 
year  1812,  cane  sugar  only  was  known  in  France; 
the  discovery  of  beetroot  sugar  dates  from  the 
Continental  blockade  of  that  period.  In  1885  the 
amount  of  raw  sugar  produced  from  beetroot 
throughout  France  was  90  millions  of  kilos.1  In 
1873  tne  sum-total  had  reached  400  millions. 
The  consumption  of  sugar  per  head  here  is  never- 
theless one-third  less  than  among  ourselves. 

We  come  now  to  see  the  results  of  fiscal  regula- 
tion upon  agriculture.  Formerly  duty  was  paid 
not  upon  the  root  itself  but  its  product.  This  is 
now  changed,  and,  the  beetroot  being  taxed,  the 
grower  strives  after  that  kind  producing  the 
largest  percentage  of  saccharine  matter.  Hardly 
less  important  is  the  residue.  The  pulp  of  the 

1  Kilogramme  =  2  lb.|3  oz. 


300     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

crushed  beetroot  in  these  regions  forms  the  staple 
food  of  cows,  pigs  and  sheep.  Mixed  with 
chopped  straw,  it  is  stored  for  winter  use  in 
mounds  by  small  cultivators,  in  enormous  cellars 
constructed  on  purpose  by  large  owners.  Horses 
refuse  to  eat  this  mixture,  which  has  a  peculiar 
odour,  scenting  farm  premises  from  end  to  end. 
The  chief  manure  used  is  that  produced  on  the 
farm  and  nitrates.  On  this  especial  estate  dried 
fish  from  Sweden  had  been  tried,  and,  as  on  the 
farm  before  mentioned,  chalky  land  is  dug  to  the 
depth  of  three  feet,  the  better  soil  being  put  on 
the  top.  This  is  the  process  called  marnage. 
We  now  drove  for  miles  right  across  the  wide 
stretches  of  young  wheat  and  land  prepared  for 
beetroot.  The  wheels  of  our  light  cart,  the  host 
said,  would  do  good  rather  than  harm.  Horse 
beans,  planted  a  few  weeks  before,  were  well  up ; 
colza  also  was  pretty  forward.  Pastures  there 
were  none.  Although  the  cornfields  were  as  clean 
as  royal  gardens  we  came  upon  parties  of  women, 
girls  and  boys  hoeing  here  and  there.  The  rows 
of  young  wheat  showed  as  much  uniformity  as  a 
newly-planted  vineyard. 

Ploughing  and  harrowing  were  being  done 
chiefly  by  horses,  only  a  few  oxen  being  used. 
My  host  told  me  that  his  animals  were  never 
worked  on  Sundays.  On  week-days  they  remain 


GUEST   OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    801 

longer  afield  than  with  us,  but  a  halt  of  an  hour 
or  two  is  made  for  food  and  rest  at  mid-day. 
Another  crop  to  be  mentioned  is  what  is  called 
hivernage  or  winter  fodder,  i.  e.  lentils  planted 
between  rows  of  rye,  the  latter  being  grown  merely 
to  protect  the  other.  On  my  query  as  to  the 
school  attendance  of  boys  and  girls  employed 
in  agriculture,  my  host  said  that  authorities  are  by 
no  means  rigid;  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year, 
indeed,  they  are  not  expected  to  attend.  Among 
some  large  landowners  we  find  tolerably  conserva- 
tive notions  even  in  France.  Over-education, 
they  say,  is  unfitting  the  people  for  manual  labour, 
putting  them  out  of  their  place,  and  so  forth. 

Moles  are  not  exterminated.  *  They  do  more 
good  than  harm,"  said  my  host,  "  and  I  like  them." 
I  had  heard  the  same  thing  at  Caumont,  where 
were  many  mole-hills.  Here  and  there,  dove- 
tailed into  these  enormous  fields,  were  small 
patches  farmed  by  the  peasants,  rarely  their  own 
property.  Their  condition  was  described  as 
neither  that  of  prosperity  nor  want.  "  They  get 
along."  That  was  the  verdict. 

In  our  long  drive  across  weedless  corn  and 
clover  fields  we  came  upon  a  small  wood,  a  recent 
plantation  of  our  host.  Even  this  bit  of  greenery 
made  a  pleasant  break  in  the  uniform  landscape. 
We  then  drove  home,  and  inspected  the  premises 


802    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

on  foot.  Everything  was  on  a  colossal  scale,  and 
trim  as  a  Dutch  interior.  The  vast  collection  of 
machinery  included  the  latest  French,  English, 
Belgian  and  American  inventions.  Steam  engines 
are  fixtures,  the  consumption  of  coal  being  160 
tons  yearly  per  300  hectares. 

We  are  thus  brought  face  to  face  with  the  agri- 
culture of  the  future,  ancient  methods  and  appli- 
ances being  supplanted  one  by  one,  manual  labour 
reduced  to  the  minimum,  the  cultivation  of  the 
soil  become  purely  mechanical.  The  idyllic  ele- 
ment vanishes  from  rural  life  and  all  savours  of 
Chicago  !  Stables  and  neat-houses  were  the  per- 
fection of  cleanliness  and  airiness.  Here  for  the 
first  time  I  saw  sheep  stabled  like  cows  and  horses. 
Their  quarters  were  very  clean,  and  littered  with 
fresh  straw.  They  go  afield  for  a  portion  of  the 
day,  but,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  pastures 
are  few  and  far  between. 

The  enormous  underground  store-houses  for 
beetroot,  pulp  and  chopped  straw  were  now  almost 
empty.  At  midday,  the  oxen  were  led  home  and 
fell  to  their  strange  food  with  appetite,  its  moist- 
ness  being  undoubtedly  an  advantage  in  dry 
weather.  The  cart  horses  were  being  fed  with 
boiled  barley,  and  looked  in  first-rate  condition. 
Indeed,  all  the  animals  seemed  as  happy  and 
well-cared  for  as  my  host's  scores  upon  scores  of 


GUEST  OF  FARMER  AND  MILLER    303 

pet  birds.  Birds,  however,  are  capricious,  and 
nothing  would  induce  a  beautiful  green  parrot  to 
cry,  "Vive  la  France"  in  my  presence.  After  an 
animated  breakfast — thoroughly  French  break- 
fast, the  best  of  everything  cooked  and  served  in 
the  best  possible  manner — we  took  leave,  and  my 
young  friend  drove  me  back  to  Vitry  to  call  upon 
his  own  family. 

M.  D.,  senior,  is  a  miller,  and  the  family 
dwelling,  which  adjoins  his  huge  water-mill,  is 
very  prettily  situated  on  the  Scarpe.  We  entered 
by  a  little  wooden  bridge  running  outside,  a  con- 
servatory filled  with  exotics  and  ferns  lending 
the  place  a  fairy  look.  I  never  saw  anything  in 
rural  France  that  more  fascinated  me  than  this 
water-mill  with  its  crystal  clear  waters  and  sur- 
rounding foliage.  M.  D.  with  his  three  sons 
quitted  their  occupation  as  we  drove  up.  Madame 
and  her  young  daughter  joined  us  in  the  cool 
salon,  and  we  chatted  pleasantly  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

I  was  much  struck  with  the  head  of  the  family, 
an  elderly  man  with  blue  eyes,  fine  features,  and 
a  thoughtful  expression.  He  spoke  sadly  of  the 
effect  of  American  competition,  and  admitted  that 
protection  could  offer  but  a  mere  palliative. 
Hitherto  I  had  found  a  keenly  protectionist  bias 
among  French  agriculturists.  Of  England  and 


304     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  English  he  spoke  with  much  sympathy, 
although  at  this  time  we  were  as  yet  far  from  the 
Entente  Cordiale.  "  C'est  le  plus  grand  peuple 
au  monde "  ("  It  is  the  greatest  nation  in  the 
world  "),  he  said. 

Nothing  could  equal  the  ease  and  cordiality 
with  which  this  charming  family  received  me. 
The  miller  with  his  three  elder  sons  had  come 
straight  from  the  mill.  Well-educated  gentlemen 
are  not  ashamed  of  manual  labour  in  France. 
How  I  wished  I  could  have  spent  days,  nay  weeks, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  water-mill ! 


XIV 

LADY    MERCHANTS   AND 
SOCIALIST   MAYORS 


LADY   MERCHANTS   AND 
SOCIALIST    MAYORS 

ONLY  three  museums  in  France  date  prior  to 
the  Revolution,  those  of  Rheims,  founded  in 
1748,  and  of  Dijon  and  Nancy,  founded  in  1787. 
The  opening  in  Paris  of  the  Museum  Frangais 
in  1792,  consisting  of  the  royal  collections  and  art 
treasures  of  suppressed  convents,  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  great  movement  in  this  direction.  At 
Lille  the  municipal  authorities  first  got  together 
a  few  pictures  in  the  convent  of  the  Recollets,  and 
Watteau  the  painter  was  deputed  to  draw  up  a 
catalogue.  On  the  i2th  May,  1795,  the  collection 
consisted  of  583  pictures  and  58  engravings.  On 
the  ist  September,  1801,  the  consuls  decreed  the 
formation  of  departmental  museums  and  distribu- 
tion of  public  art  treasures.  It  was  not,  however, 
till  1848  that  the  municipal  council  of  Lille  set 
to  work  in  earnest  upon  the  enrichment  of  the 
museum,  now  one  of  the  finest  in  provincial  cities. 
The  present  superb  building  was  erected  entirely 
at  the  expense  of  the  municipality,  and  was  only 
opened  two  years  ago.  It  has  recently  been  en- 
riched by  art  treasures  worth  a  million  of  francs, 
x  ?  307 


308    IN    THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

the  gift  of  a  rich  citizen  and  his  wife,  tapestries, 
faience,  furniture,  enamels,  ivories,  illuminated 
MSS.,  rare  bindings,  engraved  gems.  Before 
that  time  the  unrivalled  collection  of  drawings  by 
old  masters  had  lent  the  Lille  museum  a  value 
especially  its  own. 

The  collections  are  open  every  day,  Sundays 
included.  Being  entirely  built  of  stone,  there  is 
little  risk  of  fire.  Thieves  are  guarded  against 
by  two  caretakers  inside  the  building  at  night  and 
two  patrols  outside.  It  is  an  enormous  structure, 
and  arranged  with  much  taste. 

The  old  wall  still  encircles  the  inner  town,  and 
very  pretty  is  the  contrast  of  grey  stone  and  fresh 
spring  foliage;  lilacs  in  full  bloom,  also  the 
almond,  cherry,  pear  tree,  and  many  others. 

Lille  nowadays  recalls  quite  other  thoughts 
than  those  suggested  by  Tristram  Shandy.  It 
may  be  described  as  a  town  within  towns,  the 
manufacturing  centres  around  having  gradually 
developed  into  large  rival  municipalities.  Among 
these  are  Tourcoing,  Croix,  and  Roubaix,  now 
more  than  half  as  large  as  Lille  itself.  I  stayed 
a  week  at  Lille,  and  had  I  remained  there  a  year, 
in  one  respect  should  have  come  away  no  whit  the 
wiser.  The  manufactories,  one  and  all,  are  in- 
accessible as  the  interior  of  a  Carmelite  convent. 
Queen  Victoria  could  get  inside  the  monastery  of 


LADY   MERCHANTS  309 

the  Grande  Chartreuse,  but  I  question  whether 
Her  Majesty  would  have  been  permitted  to  see 
over  a  manufactory  of  thread  gloves  at  Lille ! 

Such  jealousy  has  doubtless  its  reason.  Most 
likely  trade  secrets  have  been  filched  by  foreign 
rivals  under  the  guise  of  the  ordinary  tourist.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  confection  of  a  tablecloth  or 
piece  of  beige  is  kept  as  profoundly  secret  as  that 
of  the  famous  pepper  tarts  of  Prince  Bedreddin 
or  the  life-sustaining  cordial  of  celebrated  fasters. 

In  the  hope  of  winning  over  a  feminine  mind,  I 
drove  with  a  friend  to  one  of  the  largest  factories 
at  Croix,  the  property  of  a  lady. 

Here,  as  at  Mulhouse,  mill-owners  live  in  the 
midst  of  their  works.  They  do  not  leave  business 
cares  behind  them,  after  English  fashion,  dwelling 
as  far  away  as  possible  from  factory  chimneys. 
The  premises  of  Mme.  C.  are  on  a  magnificent 
scale;  all  in  red  brick,  fresh  as  if  erected  yester- 
day, the  mistress's  house — a  vast  mansion — being 
a  little  removed  from  these  and  surrounded  by 
elegantly-arranged  grounds.  A  good  deal  of 
bowing  and  scraping  had  to  be  got  through  before 
we  were  even  admitted  to  the  portress's  lodge,  as 
much  more  ceremonial  before  the  portress  could 
be  induced  to  convey  our  errand  to  one  of  the 
numerous  clerks  in  a  counting-house  close  by.  At 
length,  and  after  many  dubious  shakes  of  the  head 


310     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

and  murmurs  of  surprise  at  our  audacity,  the  card 
was  transmitted  to  the  mansion. 

A  polite  summons  to  the  great  lady's  presence 
raised  our  hopes.  There  seemed  at  least  some 
faint  hope  of  success.  Traversing  the  gravelled 
path,  as  we  did  so  catching  sight  of  madame's 
coach-house  and  half-dozen  carriages,  landau, 
brougham,  brake,  and  how  many  more !  we 
reached  the  front  door.  Here  the  clerk  left  us, 
and  a  footman  in  livery,  with  no  little  ceremony, 
ushered  us  into  the  first  of  a  suite  of  reception 
rooms,  all  fitted  up  in  the  modern  style,  and 
having  abundance  of  ferns  and  exotics. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  salon  a  fashionably 
dressed  lady,  typically  French  in  feature,  manners 
and  deportment,  sat  talking  to  two  gentlemen. 
She  very  graciously  advanced  to  meet  us,  held 
out  a  small  white  hand  covered  with  rings,  and 
with  the  sweetest  smile  heard  my  modestly  reiter- 
ated request  to  be  allowed  a  glimpse  of  the 
factory.  Would  that  I  could  convey  the  gesture, 
expression  of  face  and  tone  of  voice  with  which 
she  replied,  in  the  fewest  possible  words ! 

After  that  inimitable,  unforgettable  "Jamais, 
jamais,  jamais  !  "  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  make 
our  bow  and  retire,  discomfiture  being  amply 
atoned  by  the  little  scene  just  described. 

We  next  drove  straight  through  Lille  to  the  vast 


LADY   MERCHANTS  311 

park  or  Bois,  as  it  is  called,  not  many  years  since 
acquired  by  the  town  as  a  pleasure-ground.  Very 
wisely,  the  pretty,  irregular  stretch  of  glade,  dell 
and  wood  has  been  left  as  it  was,  only  a  few  paths, 
seats  and  plantations  being  added.  No  manu- 
facturing town  in  France  is  better  off  in  this  re- 
spect. Wide,  handsome  boulevards  lead  to  the 
Bois  and  pretty  botanical  garden,  many  private 
mansions  having  beautiful  grounds,  but  walled  in 
completely  as  those  of  cloistered  convents.  The 
fresh  spring  greenery  and  multitude  of  flowering 
trees  and  shrubs  make  suburban  Lille  look  its 
best;  outside  the  town  every  cottage  has  a  bit  of 
ground  and  a  tree  or  two. 

During  this  second  week  of  April  the  weather 
suddenly  changed.  Rain  fell,  and  a  keen  east 
wind  rendered  fires  and  winter  garments  once 
more  indispensable.  On  one  of  these  cold,  windy 
days  I  went  with  Lille  friends  to  Roubaix,  as 
cold  and  windy  a  town,  I  should  say,  as  any  in 
France. 

A  preliminary  word  or  two  must  be  said  about 
Roubaix,  the  city  of  strikes,  pre-eminently  the 
Socialist  city. 

City  we  may  indeed  call  it,  and  it  is  one  of 
rapidly  increasing  dimensions.  In  the  beginning 
of  the  century  Roubaix  numbered  8000  souls  only. 
Its  population  is  now  114,000.  Since  1862  the 


312    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

number  of  its  machines  has  quintupled.  Every 
week  600  tons  of  wool  are  brought  to  the  mills. 
As  I  have  before  mentioned,  more  business  is 
transacted  with  the  Bank  of  France  by  this  chef- 
lieu  of  a  canton  than  by  Toulouse,  Rheims, 
Nimes,  or  Montpellier.  The  speciality  of  Rou- 
baix  is  its  dress  stuffs  and  woollen  materials,  large 
quantities  of  which  are  exported  to  America.  To 
see  these  soft,  delicate  fabrics  we  must  visit 
Regent  Street  and  other  fashionable  quarters,  not 
an  inch  is  to  be  caught  sight  of  here. 

Roubaix  is  a  handsome  town,  with  every  pos- 
sible softening  down  of  grimy  factory  walls  and 
tall  chimneys.  A  broad,  well-built  street  leads 
to  the  Hotel  de  Ville ;  another  equally  wide  street, 
with  mansions  of  wealthy  mill-owners  and  adja- 
cent factories,  leads  to  the  new  Boulevard  de 
Paris  and  pretty  public  park,  where  a  band  plays 
on  Sunday  afternoons. 

But  my  first  object  was  to  obtain  an  interview 
with  the  Socialist  mayor,  a  man  of  whom  I  had 
heard  much.  A  friend  residing  at  Lille  kindly 
paved  the  way  by  sending  his  own  card  with  mine, 
the  messenger  bringing  back  a  courteous  reply. 
Unfortunately,  the  Conseil-General  then  sitting 
at  Lille  curtailed  the  time  at  the  mayor's  disposal, 
but  before  one  o'clock  he  would  be  pleased  to 
receive  me,  he  sent  word.  Accordingly,  con- 


LADY   MERCHANTS  313 

ducted  by  my  friend's  clerk,  I  set  out  for  the 
Town  Hall. 

We  waited  some  little  time  in  the  vestibule,  the 
chief  magistrate  of  Roubaix  being  very  busy. 
Deputy-mayors,  adjoints,  were  coming  and  going, 
and  liveried  officials  bustled  about,  glancing  at  me 
from  time  to  time,  but  without  any  impertinent 
curiosity.  Impertinent  curiosity,  by  the  way,  we 
rarely  meet  with  in  France.  People  seem  of 
opinion  that  everybody  must  be  the  best  judge  of 
his  or  her  own  business.  I  was  finally  ushered 
into  the  council  chamber,  where  the  mayor  and 
three  deputy-mayors  sat  at  a  long  table  covered 
with  green  baize,  transacting  business.  He  very 
courteously  bade  me  take  a  seat  beside  him,  and 
we  at  once  entered  into  conversation.  The  work- 
ing man's  representative  of  what  was  then  the 
city  par  excellence  of  strikes  and  socialism  is  a 
remarkable-looking  man  in  middle  life.  Tall, 
angular,  beardless,  with  the  head  of  a  leader,  he 
would  be  noticed  anywhere.  There  was  a  look 
of  indomitable  conviction  in  his  face,  and  a  quiet 
dignity  from  which  neither  his  shabby  clothes  nor 
his  humble  calling  detract.  Can  any  indeed  well 
be  humbler?  The  first  magistrate  of  a  city  of  a 
hundred  and  fourteen  thousand  souls,  a  large  per- 
centage of  whom  are  educated,  wealthy  men  of 
the  world,  keeps,  as  I  have  said,  a  small  estaminet 


314     IN   THE  HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

or  cafe  in  which  smoking  is  permitted,1  and  sells 
newspapers,  himself  early  in  the  morning  making 
up  and  delivering  his  bundles  to  the  various  re- 
tailers. Here,  indeed,  we  have  the  principles  of 
the  Republic — Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity — 
carried  out  to  their  logical  conclusion.  Without 
money,  without  social  position,  this  man  owes  his 
present  dignity  to  sheer  force  of  character  and 
conviction.  We  chatted  of  socialism  and  the 
phases  of  it  more  immediately  connected  with 
Roubaix,  on  which  latter  subject  I  ventured  to 
beg  a  little  information. 

"  We  must  go  to  the  fountain-head,"  he  replied 
very  affably.  "  I  regret  that  time  does  not  permit 
me  to  enter  into  particulars  now;  but  leave  me 
your  English  address.  The  information  required 
shall  be  forwarded." 

We  then  talked  of  socialism  in  England,  of 
his  English  friends,  and  he  was  much  interested 
to  learn  that  I  had  once  seen  the  great  Marx  and 
heard  him  speak  at  a  meeting  of  the  International 
in  Holborn  twenty-five  years  before. 

Then  I  told  him,  what  perhaps  he  knew,  of  the 
liberty  accorded  by  our  Government  to  hold 
meetings  in  Trafalgar  Square,  and  we  spoke  of 
Gladstone.  "A  good  democrat,  but  born  too 
early  for  socialism — the  future  of  the  world.  One 

1  I  give  Littrd's  meaning  of  estaminet. 


LADY   MERCHANTS  315 

cannot  take  to  socialism  at  eighty-three  years  of 
age,"  I  said. 

"  No,  that  is  somewhat  late  in  the  day,"  was 
the  smiling  reply. 

I  took  leave,  much  pleased  with  my  reception. 
From  a  certain  point  of  view,  the  socialist  mayor 
of  Roubaix  was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
personalities  I  had  met  in  France. 

Roubaix  has  been  endowed  by  the  State  with 
a  handsome  museum,  library,  technical  and  art 
school,  the  latter  for  young  men  only.  These 
may  belong  to  any  nationality,  and  obtain  their 
professional  or  artistic  training  free  of  charge. 
The  exhibition  of  students'  work  sufficiently  pro- 
claims the  excellence  of  the  teaching.  Here  we 
saw  very  clever  studies  from  the  living  model,  a 
variety  of  designs,  and,  most  interesting  of  all, 
fabrics  prepared,  dyed  and  woven  entirely  by  the 
students. 

The  admirably  arranged  library  is  open  to  all, 
and  we  were  courteously  shown  some  of  its 
choicest  treasures.  These  are  not  bibliographical 
curiosities,  but  albums  containing  specimens  of 
Lyons  silk,  a  marvellous  display  of  taste  and 
skill.  Gems,  butterflies'  wings,  feathers  of 
tropical  birds  are  not  more  brilliant  than  these 
hues,  while  each  design  is  thoroughly  artistic,  and 
in  its  way  an  achievement. 


316     IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE  VOSGES 

The  picture  gallery  contains  a  good  portrait  of 
the  veteran  song-writer  Nadaud,  author  of  the 
immortal  "  Carcassonne."  Many  Germans  and 
Belgians,  engaged  in  commerce,  spend  years  here, 
going  away  when  their  fortunes  are  made.  More 
advantageous  to  the  place  are  those  capitalists 
who  take  root,  identifying  themselves  with 
local  interests.  Such  is  the  case  with  a  large 
English  firm  at  Croix,  who  have  founded  a 
Protestant  church  and  schools  for  their  work- 
people. 

Let  me  record  the  spectacle  presented  by  the 
museum  on  Sunday  afternoon  during  the  brilliant 
weather  of  April  1893.  What  most  struck  me 
was  the  presence  of  poorly-dressed  boys;  they 
evidently  belonged  to  the  least  prosperous  work- 
ing class,  and  came  in  by  twos  and  threes.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  good  behaviour  of  these  lads,  or 
their  interest  in  everything.  Many  young  shop- 
women  were  also  there,  and,  as  usual,  a  large 
contingent  of  soldiers  and  recruits. 

Few  shops  remained  open  after  mid-day,  except 
one  or  two  very  large  groceries,  at  which  fresh 
vegetables  were  sold.  It  is  pleasant  to  note  a 
gradual  diminution  of  Sunday  labour  throughout 
France. 

The  celebration  of  May-Day,  which  date 
occurred  soon  after  my  visit,  was  not  calculated 


LADY   MERCHANTS  817 

either  to  alarm  the  Republic  or  the  world  in 
general.  It  was  a  monster  manifestation  in 
favour  of  the  Three  Eights,  and  I  think  few  of 
us,  were  we  suddenly  transformed  into  Roubaix 
machinists,  would  not  speedily  become  Three 
Eighters  as  well. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  firing  of 
cannon  announced  the  annual  "  Fete  du  Travail," 
or  workmen's  holiday,  not  accorded  by  Act  of 
Parliament,  but  claimed  by  the  people  as  a 
legitimate  privilege. 

Unwonted  calm  prevailed  in  certain  quarters. 
Instead  of  men,  women,  boys  and  girls  pouring 
by  tens  of  thousands  into  the  factories,  the  streets 
leading  to  them  were  empty.  In  one  or  two  cases, 
where  machinery  had  been  set  in  motion  and  doors 
opened,  public  opinion  immediately  effected  a 
stoppage  of  work.  Instead,  therefore,  of  being 
imprisoned  from  half-past  five  in  the  morning  till 
seven  or  eight  at  night,  the  entire  Roubaisien 
population  had  freed  itself  to  enjoy  "a  sunshine 
holiday."  Such  a  day  cannot  be  too  long,  and  at 
a  quarter  past  seven  vast  crowds  had  collected 
before  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Here  a  surprise  was  in  store  for  the  boldest 
Three  Eighter  going.  The  tricolour  had  been 
hoisted  down,  and  replaced,  not  by  a  red 
flag,  but  by  a  large  transparency,  showing  the 


318    IN   THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

following   device   in   red    letters    upon    a   white 
ground  :— 

F£TE  INTERNATIONALE  DU  TRAVAIL, 
icr  Mai  1893. 

Huit  Heures  du  Travail, 
Huit  Heures  du  Loisir, 
Huit  Heures  du  Repos.1 

The  mayor,  in  undress,  that  is  to  say  in  gar- 
ments of  every  day,  having  surveyed  these  pre- 
parations, returned  to  his  estaminet,  the  Plat 
d'Or,  and  there  folded  his  newspapers  as  usual 
for  the  day's  distribution. 

In  the  meantime  the  finishing  touch  was  put  to 
other  decorations,  consisting  of  flags,  devices  and 
red  drapery,  everywhere  the  Three  Eights  being 
conspicuous. 

A  monster  procession  was  then  formed,  headed 
by  the  Town  Council  and  a  vast  number  of  bands. 
There  was  the  music  of  the  Fire  Brigade,  the 
socialist  brass  band,  the  children's  choir,  the 
Choral  Society  of  Roubaix,  the  Franco-Belgian 
Choral  Society,  and  many  others.  Twenty  thou- 
sand persons  took  part  in  this  procession,  the  men 
wearing  red  neckties  and  a  red  flower  in  their 
button-holes,  the  forty-seven  groups  of  the  work- 

1  Translation — International  festival  of  labour  ;  eight  hours' 
work,  eight  hours'  leisure,  eight  hours'  repose. 


LADY   MERCHANTS 319 

men's  federation  bearing  banners,  all  singing, 
bands  playing,  drums  beating,  cannons  firing  as 
they  went. 

At  mid-day  the  defile  was  made  before  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  and  delegates  of  the  diffeient 
socialist  groups  were  formally  received  by  the 
mayor  and  deputy-mayors,  wearing  their  tricolour 
scarves  of  office. 

I  must  say  the  mayor's  speech  was  a  model  of 
conciseness,  good  sense  and,  it  must  be  added, 
courtesy;  addressing  himself  first  to  his  fellow- 
townswomen,  then  to  his  fellow-townsmen,  he 
thanked  the  labour  party  for  the  grandiose  cele- 
bration of  the  day,  dwelt  on  the  determination  of 
the  municipal  council  to  watch  over  the  workmen's 
interests,  then  begged  all  to  enjoy  themselves 
thoroughly,  taking  care  to  maintain  the  public 
peace. 

Toasts  were  drunk,  the  mayor's  health  with 
especial  enthusiasm,  but  when  at  the  stroke  of 
noon  he  waved  the  tricolour  and  an  enormous 
number  of  pigeons  were  let  loose,  not  to  be  fired 
at  but  admired  as  they  flew  away  in  all  directions, 
their  tricolour  ribbons  fluttering,  the  general 
delight  knew  no  bounds.  "  Long  live  our  mayor," 
resounded  from  every  mouth,  "Vive  le  citoyen 
Carrette !  " 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  devoted  to  harmless, 


320     IN   THE   HEART   OF  THE   VOSGES 

out-of-door  amusements  :  a  balloon  ascent,  on  the 
car  being  conspicuous  in  red,  "  Les  trois  huits," 
concerts,  gymnastic  contests,  finally  dancing  and 
illuminations. 

Thus  ended  the  first  of  May,  1893,  in  Lille. 

St.  Omer  is  a  clean,  well-built  and  sleepy  little 
town,  with  some  fine  old  churches.  The  mellow 
tone  of  the  street  architecture,  especially  under  a 
burning  blue  sky,  is  very  soothing ;  all  the  houses 
have  a  yellowish  or  pinkish  hue. 

The  town  abounds  in  convents  and  seminaries, 
and  the  chief  business  of  well-to-do  ladies  seems 
that  of  going  to  church.  In  the  cathedral  are 
many  votive  tablets  to  "  Our  Lady  of  Miracles  "— 
one  of  the  numerous  miracle-working  Virgins  in 
France.  Here  we  read  the  thanksgiving  of  a 
young  man  miraculously  preserved  throughout  his 
four  years'  military  service;  there,  one  records 
how,  after  praying  fervently  for  a  certain  boon, 
after  many  years  the  Virgin  had  granted  his 
prayer.  Parents  commemorate  miraculous  favours 
bestowed  on  their  children,  and  so  on. 

The  ancient  ramparts  at  this  time  were  in  course 
of  demolition,  and  the  belt  of  boulevards  which 
are  to  replace  them  will  be  a  great  improvement. 
The  town  is  protected  by  newly-constructed 
works.  Needless  to  say,  it  possesses  a  public 


LADY  MERCHANTS 821 

library,  on  the  usual  principle — one  citizen  one 
book, — a  museum,  and  small  picture  gallery.  The 
population  is  21,000. 

I  was  cordially  received  by  a  friend's  friend, 
foremost  resident  in  the  place,  and  owner  of  a 
large  distillery.  As  usual,  the  private  dwelling, 
with  coach-house,  stables  and  garden  adjoined 
the  business  premises.  The  genievre  or  gin,  so 
called  from  the  juniper  used  in  flavouring  it,  here 
manufactured,  is  a  choice  liqueur,  not  the  cheap 
intoxicant  of  our  own  public-houses.  Liqueurs 
are  always  placed  with  coffee  on  French  breakfast- 
tables.  Every  one  takes  a  teaspoonful  as  a  help 
to  digestion. 

French  people  are  greatly  astonished  at  the 
absence  of  liqueurs  in  England.  The  excellence 
of  French  digestions  generally  would  not  seem  to 
discredit  the  habit.  In  the  fabrication  of  gin  here 
only  the  corn  of  rye  is  used,  and  in  small  quan- 
tities, the  juniper  berry;  it  is  ready  for  drinking 
in  six  months,  although  improved  by  keeping.  I 
saw  also  curagoa  in  its  various  stages.  The 
orange  peel  used  in  the  manufacture  of  this 
liqueur  is  soaked  in  alcohol  for  four  months. 

My  object,  however,  was  to  see  the  high  farm- 
ing on  an  extensive  scale  for  which  this  region  is 
famous.  Accordingly  my  host,  accompanied  by 
his  amiable  wife,  placed  themselves,  their  car- 


322     IN  THE   HEART   OF   THE   VOSGES 

riage,  and  time  at  my  disposal,  and  we  set  out  for 
a  long  round. 

In  harvest  time  the  aspect  of  the  country  must 
be  one  of  extreme  richness.  The  enormous 
sweeps  of  corn,  clover,  and  beetroot  have  no 
division  from  each  other  or  the  road;  no  hedges 
are  to  be  seen,  and  not  a  tree  in  the  middle  of  the 
crops,  few  trees,  indeed,  anywhere.  Everywhere, 
on  this  1 7th  of  April,  the  corn  was  a  month  ahead 
of  former  seasons,  and,  in  spite  of  the  long 
drought,  very  flourishing. 

The  first  farm  visited  consists  of  360  hectares 
(just  upon  900  acres),  all  in  the  highest  cultivation, 
and  conducted  strictly  on  the  footing  of  a  large 
industrial  concern,  with  offices,  counting-house, 
carpenters',  saddlers'  and  wheelwrights'  shops, 
smithies,  mills  and  machinery,  every  agricultural 
process  down  to  grinding  the  corn  being  per- 
formed on  the  premises,  and  by  workmen  in  the 
employ  of  the  owner. 

As  we  enter  these  vast  premises,  and  hear  the 
buzz  of  machinery,  we  feel  the  complete  pro- 
saicization  of  rustic  life.  The  farmhouse  scenes 
of  my  own  childhood  in  Suffolk,  the  idyllic 
descriptions  of  George  Eliot,  no  more  resemble 
actualities  than  the  poetic  spinning-wheel  of 
olden  times  the  loom  of  latest  invention.  Utility 
is  the  object  aimed  at,  incontestably  with  great 


LADY   MERCHANTS  323 

results,  but  in  effect  unromantic  as  Chicago.  It  is 
high  farming  made  to  pay.  All  was  bustle  and 
activity  as  we  made  the  round  of  the  premises, 
beginning  with  the  vast  machinery  and  workshops. 
These  walled-in  buildings,  divided  into  two  por- 
tions, each  covering  three-quarters  of  an  acre, 
reminded  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  the 
caravanserais  of  Algerian  travel  twenty-five  years 
ago.  Once  the  doors  are  bolted  none  can  enter, 
yet  to  render  security  doubly  sure  dogs  are 
chained  up  in  every  corner — we  will  hope,  let 
loose  at  night. 

I  will  not  here  go  into  agricultural  details,  only 
adding  a  few  particulars. 

The  splendid  wheat,  clover,  bean  and  rye  crops 
attested  the  excellence  of  the  farming.  Dove- 
tailing into  these  enormous  fields  were  small 
patches  of  peasant  owners  or  tenants,  all  without 
division  or  apparent  boundary. 

In  the  villages  I  was  struck  by  the  tidy  appear- 
ance of  the  children  coming  out  of  school.  The 
usual  verdict  on  peasant  proprietors  hereabouts 
was  that  they  do  not  accumulate,  neither  are  they 
in  want.  Very  little,  if  any,  beggary  meets  the 
eye,  either  in  town  or  country.  We  then  drove  to 
the  chateau,  with  its  English  grounds,  of  the 

Vicomte  de ,  friend  of  my  host,  and  an  ardent 

admirer  of   England  and   English  ways.     This 


324     IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

gentleman  looked,  indeed,  like  an  English  squire, 
and  spoke  our  tongue.  He  had  visited  King 
Edward,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  at  Sandringham. 
As  an  illustration  of  his  lavish  method  of  doing 
things,  I  mention  a  quantity  of  building  stone 
lately  ordered  from  Valenciennes.  This  stone, 
for  the  purpose  of  building  offices,  had  cost  ;£8oo. 
In  this  part  of  France  clerks  and  counting-houses 
seem  an  indispensable  feature  of  farm  premises. 
An  enormous  bell  for  summoning  work-people  to 
work  or  meals  is  always  conspicuous.  The  whole 
thing  has  a  commercial  aspect. 

Here  we  saw  some  magnificent  animals,  among 
these  a  prize  bull  of  Flemish  breed.  It  was  said 
to  be  very  fierce,  and  on  this  account  had  a  ring 
in  its  nose.  This  cruel  custom  is  now,  I  believe, 
prohibited  here  by  the  Society  for  the  Prevention 
of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  On  the  other  hand,  I  was 
glad  to  find  the  Vicomte  a  member  of  the  kindred 
society  in  Paris,  and  he  assured  me  that  he  was 
constantly  holding  his  green  card  of  membership 
over  offenders  in  terror  em. 

We  hardly  expect  a  rich  aristocrat  to  make 
utility  the  first  object  in  his  agricultural  pursuits. 
High  farming  was  nevertheless  here  the  order  of 
the  day. 

We  next  drove  to  Clairmarais,  a  village  some 
miles  off  in  quite  another  direction,  coming  in 


LADY   MERCHANTS  325 

sight  of  magnificent  forests.  Our  errand  was  to 
the  ancient  Cistercian  abbey,  now  the  property  of 
a  capitalist,  and  turned  into  the  business  premises 
of  his  large  farm.  Of  the  original  monastery, 
founded  in  1140,  hardly  a  trace  remains.  Abut- 
ting on  the  outer  wall  is  the  chapel,  and  before  it 
a  small  enclosed  flower-garden  full  of  wallflowers 
and  flowering  shrubs,  a  bit  of  prettiness  welcome 
to  the  eye.  Just  beyond,  too,  was  an  old- 
fashioned,  irregularly  planted  orchard,  with 
young  cattle  grazing  under  the  bloom-laden  trees, 
the  turf  dazzlingly  bright,  but  less  so  than  the 
young  corn  and  rye,  now  ready  for  first  harvesting. 

The  vaulted  kitchens  with  vast  fireplaces  are 
relics  of  the  ancient  abbey,  and  even  now  form 
most  picturesque  interiors.  At  a  long  wooden 
table  in  one  sat  a  blue-bloused  group  drinking 
cider  out  of  huge  yellow  mugs — scene  for  a 
painter.  Another,  fitted  up  as  a  dairy,  was  hardly 
less  of  a  picture.  On  shelves  in  the  dark,  anti- 
quated chamber  lay  large,  red-earthen  pans  full 
of  cream  for  cheese-making.  The  brown-robed 
figure  of  a  lay  brother  would  have  seemed  appro- 
priate in  either  place. 

Outside  these  all  was  modernization  and  hard 
prose.  We  saw  the  shepherd  returning  with  his 
sheep  from  the  herbage,  the  young  lambs  bleating 
pitifully  in  an  inner  shed.  It  is  the  custom  here 


326      IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  VOSGES 

to  send  the  sheep  afield  during  the  day,  the  lambs 
meantime  being  fed  on  hay.  Here  again,  I 
should  say,  is  a  commercial  mistake.  The  lamb 
of  pasture-fed  animals  must  be  incontestably 
superior.  Humanity  here  seems  on  the  side  of 
utilitarianism.  Who  can  say?  Perhaps  the 
inferiority  of  French  meat  in  certain  regions  arises 
from  this  habit  of  stabling  cattle  and  sheep.  The 
drive  from  Clairmarais  to  St.  Omer  took  us 
through  a  quite  different  and  much  more  attractive 
country.  We  were  now  in  the  marais,  an  amphi- 
bious stretch  of  country,  cut  up  into  gardens  and 
only  accessible  by  tiny  canals.  It  is  a  small 
Holland.  This  vast  stretch  of  market  garden, 
intersected  by  waterways  just  admitting  the 
passage  of  a  boat,  is  very  productive.  Three 
pounds  per  hectare  is  often  paid  in  rent.  The 
early  vegetables,  conveyed  by  boat  to  St.  Omer, 
are  largely  exported  to  England.  Every  inch  of 
ground  is  turned  to  account,  the  turf-bordered, 
canal-bound  gardens  making  a  pretty  scene,  above 
the  green  levels  intersected  by  gleaming  water 
the  fine  towers  of  St.  Omer  clearly  outlined 
against  the  brilliant  sky. 

The  English  colony  of  former  days  vanished 
on  the  outbreak  of  the  last  war,  not  to  return.  A 
few  young  English  Catholics  still  prepare  for  the 
priesthood  here,  and  eighty  more  were  at  this  time 


LADY   MERCHANTS  327 

pursuing  their  studies  at  Douai,  under  the  charge 
of  English  Benedictines.  "Why,"  impatiently 
asked  Arthur  Young  in  1788,  "are  Catholics  to 
emigrate  in  order  to  be  ill-educated  abroad, 
instead  of  being  allowed  institutions  that  would 
educate  them  well  at  home  ?  " 

The  disabilities  he  reprobates  have  long  since 
been  removed,  but  English-speaking  seminarists 
still  flock  to  Douai. 

Here  I  close  this  agricultural  and  industrial 
round  in  Picardy  and  French  Flanders,  regions 
so  near  home,  yet  so  unfamiliar  to  most  of  us ! 
And  here  I  close  what,  in  many  respects,  may  be 
called  another  round  in  unfrequented  France. 


THE    END 


RICHARD  CLAY  &  SONS,  LIMITED, 

BRUNSWICK  STREET,  STAMFORD  STREET,  S.F. 
AND  BUNGAV,  SUFFOLK. 


—  _  «*•»*•    TCI    TVrf  "P. 


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